Phoenix Sub Zero

The water that came in soaked into Pacino’s clothes, terribly cold, the water at that depth actually colder than ice water because of the salt in it. The water rose to his shins, and by that time his feet were already numb, his ankles beginning to get numb. The frigid water climbed to waist level, soaking the trousers of his poopysuit. The air in the space was getting foggy, its pressure rising, its temperature climbing from the compression, the odd effect of the hot humid air next to the freezing water filling the chamber with fog so dense that Pacino could no longer make out the upper hatch in the light of the twin battle lanterns. The water rose to his chest, and he could feel his heart pounding, working against the stress of the cold. When the water rose higher he heard Vaughn calling him into the partitioned area. Pacino crowded over with the rest of the men, the hot cloudy air and close quarters making it difficult to breathe. The water rose up to chin level.

Vaughn’s voice sounded eerie in the highly pressurized space, its pressure equal to outside the ship. Without mixed gas for breathing, the oxygen in the space would become toxic in minutes. They had to get out or die here. Pacino’s feet and legs had left him long before. His hands were going and now even his torso was nearly numb.

Vaughn filled the first man’s Steinke hood, the plastic going over the man’s head to chest level, a small clear plastic window in the mask showing the man’s pained face.

“Don’t forget to scream all the way up,” Vaughn said.

Vaughn hit a hydraulic lever that opened the upper hatch.

Pacino could hear a bubbling sound as the trapped air out side the partition left the trunk. The chamber was now open to the sea, the surface 1,200 feet above, the only air what was trapped in the partition.

The men left one by one. Now it was Pacino’s turn.

Vaughn put on his hood, the high-pressure air filling it, the taste of it dry and coppery. Vaughn then filled his own and dropped the hose, looking at Pacino.

“Let’s go, sir. Don’t forget to scream. See you on the surface.”

Vaughn and Pacino ducked down, their heads popping underwater and emerging on the other side of the partition wall, now directly under the upper hatch. Vaughn went first.

In the dim light, still shining underwater, Pacino saw Vaughn rise up through the circle of the hatch and vanish.

Just for a moment, Pacino was tempted to shut the upper hatch and go back into the chamber, but Vaughn’s words rang in his ears. What would the XO tell the crew?

Pacino felt his way, the air in his hood making him buoyant. He pushed himself up, the hood pulling him upward. He put his hands on the hatchway, guided himself out, and as he passed out the hatch he said the words aloud, knowing there was no one else to do it.

“Seawolf, departing.”

The light shone weakly from the open hatch. He had the briefest impression of the green hull extending into the darkness fore and aft, the hull ending at a jagged rip. He let go of the metal of the hatch, surprised that he could still feel something with his fingers, and now he looked up, beginning to feel the water flow as he began to rise.

It was a strange sensation being in arctic seawater, body numb, knowing it was a quarter-mile to the surface. He wondered if he was succumbing to nitrogen narcosis, rapture of the deep, a drunkenness from the toxicity of nitrogen at the high partial pressures. He looked up to the surface, seeing only blackness, and he screamed, screamed to prevent his lungs from exploding as he moved into shallower and shallower water with the easing of the pressure, but he also screamed because he felt like screaming.

“Ho ho ho! Ho ho ho! Ho ho ho!”

The shout they’d taught them all at sub school when they’d made a simulated escape from 100 feet. Back then it had seemed a lark, an adventure. Today it was something else.

He screamed and screamed.

* * *

“Listen to this. Captain.”

Kane took his eyes from the periscope and joined Mcdonne at the speaker of the UWT system. There was a multitude of bubbles, rushing noises, and what sounded like screaming.

“Must be a school of whales,” Kane said, returning to his periscope. He

lit the low-light enhancer and gasped. “We’ve got open water here. We’ve got to get the blower ready to go.

God knows how much power we have left. It could be gone.”

“Houser, line up the system. Prepare to surface.”

“AFT COMPARTMENT, CAPTAIN, WE ARE PREPARING TO SURFACE. PUT A FIVE-DEGREE UP ANGLE ON THE SHIP USING THE STERNPLANES. I SAY AGAIN—”

Kane nodded. They might have no power at the surface but at least they would be where the world could see them, and the only power he would need was enough to transmit on the HF radio distress signal.

Then they would have to wait. Wait… The hull inclined upward. Mcdonne and Houser were pumping out the depth-control tanks and getting ready to blow out the water from the ballast tanks with the low-pressure blower. Kane could only hope there would be enough battery power left just to do that.