Dive to Oblivion

1

Commander Pete Slater awoke from his restless slumber long before his alarm clock was due to ring.

The forty-two-year-old Annapolis graduate never slept well while at sea, and this current patrol proved no exception.

His weary eyes scanned the darkened stateroom, stopping on the collection of softly glowing, luminescent-lit instruments mounted on the bulkhead before him. With a practiced glance he saw they were travelling on a southwesterly course, at a speed of fifteen knots, two hundred and eighty feet beneath the sea’s surface.

Without referring to a chart, Slater visualized their position. A little less than twenty-four hours ago, the USS Lewis and Clark had left its berth at Charleston, South Carolina to begin a high-speed sprint into the Atlantic. Their initial course took them to the southeast, into the Bahamas. Here they skirted the eastern coast of Great Abaco Island, and entered Northeast Providence Channel. Nassau lay to the south, and soon they’d turn back to the southeast, to penetrate the deep, relatively narrow expanse of water bordered by Andros Island to the west, and known as the Tongue of the Ocean.

The Lewis and Clark had been ordered into the Tongue of the Ocean to undergo sea trials in a specially designed U.S. Navy underwater test range. Pete Slater was no stranger to this state-of-the-art facility, though this would be his first visit as the commanding officer of a nuclear-powered, ballistic missile submarine.

To command such a vessel was a privilege, and Slater took his responsibility seriously. The Lewis and Clark was a Benjamin Franklin class submarine, that had been recently retrofitted to carry sixteen Trident C-4 missiles. Each missile could carry up to eight loo kiloton MIRV’d warheads with a range of over 4,000 nautical miles. Because of this vastly increased range, vessels of the Lewis and Clark’s class were being withdrawn from forward-basing in Europe.

Though there were newer ballistic missile submarines in the fleet, the Lewis and Clark could still hold its own as a potent lighting platform. Originally commissioned on December 22, 1965, the vessel was outfitted with a variety of sophisticated electronics and weapons systems, making it a capable, first-line man of-war.

Four hundred and twenty-five feet long, the sub displaced over 8,250 tons. An S5W pressurized water-cooled reactor powered a single shaft, allowing for speeds in excess of twenty knots.

A crew of one hundred and forty officers and enlisted men manned the vessel. Their mission of deterrence made the avoidance of hostile submarines a number one priority. Therefore the boat’s sonar outfit was designed for long-range detection rather than fire control. Yet should the Lewis and Clark need to defend itself, it could readily do so with four bow mounted torpedo tubes capable of firing the high-performance Mk 48.

An electronic tone sounded routinely in the background. Slater sat up, yawned, and after rubbing his hand over his stub bled jaw, decided that a shave was in order. His quarters included a private head, certainly a luxury on a vessel as cramped for space as a submarine.

Ever grateful for this convenience, he washed his hands with warm water in the Pullman-style washbasin and brushed his teeth before reaching for the hot lather machine. As he spread the aloe-scented cream over his face, he caught his reflection in the mirror, and took a second to appraise his tightly muscled upper torso that he managed to keep firm with frequent visits to the boat’s Universal machine. His stomach was still flat, and the only evidence of the passing years was the white that increasingly colored his short blond hair and the crow’s-feet around the outer corners of his deep blue eyes.

After soaking his razor in hot water, he proceeded to scrape the lather off his face, being careful not to cut the deeply dimpled skin of his chin. This distinctive feature had been inherited from his father, and according to his wife Mimi, was only one of the qualities that made him almost an exact look-alike to the actor Kirk Douglas. Others made the same comparison, and Slater had long ago gotten used to hearing such comments.

After completing his toilet, he pulled on a pair of dark blue coveralls and crossed over to his bulkhead mounted desk where a thick stack of paperwork awaited. Before tackling it, he looked at the calendar.

Tomorrow would be his wife’s thirty-seventh birthday, and he reread the family gram that he had sent earlier in the day.

Because communications with a submerged submarine were kept at an absolute minimum, the family gram was the submariners’ only contact with the outside world. Limited in length and content due to security concerns, such personal dispatches were broadcast only when conditions permitted.

To ensure privacy and to get around the ever present shore-based censors, a personal code was often created.

Pete Slater’s latest family gram utilized a variety of terms that would only have meaning to his wife.

Slater began calling her Mouse twenty years ago, on the night they first met at a Naval Academy costume party. Mimi had made an adorable Minnie Mouse at that time, while Slater earned his nickname by wearing the costume of the little Dutchman, complete with wooden shoes that he had carved himself.

The rest of his latest family gram was equally symbolic.

On those rare occasions when he was home, they often watched Robin Leach chronicle the lives of the rich and famous on television. Both were painfully aware that this would be as close as they would ever come to sharing the carefree lives of a jet-setter, and Slater teased his wife with his best Robin Leach imitation whenever the situation warranted.

C.Y.K. had a different source. Short for consider yourself kissed, it was originally coined by Mimi’s great-aunt. It was a term of endearment, but it also meant that all was well.

Satisfied that his family gram would be well received, Slater’s thoughts were redirected by the inviting scent of fresh-perked coffee. He took another look at the stack of paperwork that sat before him, and decided that he’d be much better prepared to dig into it after a quick breakfast. In the nearby wardroom. Slater found two officers seated at the large, rectangular table. One was his XO, Lieutenant Commander Tim Bressler, who was polishing off a stack of hotcakes. Seated beside the XO, a detailed bathymetric chart spread out before him, was the Lewis and Clark’s navigator. Lieutenant Todd Ferrell.

“Good morning, Skipper. How’d you sleep?” greeted Bressler between bites.

Slater answered while seating himself at his customary position at the head of the table.

“I believe that I managed to get a couple of decent hours of shuteye in, XO. How soon until we make our next course change?”

“At present speed, we’ve got another quarter of an hour to go until we leave Northeast Providence Channel, Captain,” volunteered the navigator, as he pointed towards the chart and outlined the narrow channel lying between Andros Island and Nassau.

“As planned, we’ll be entering Tongue of the Ocean by way of the Andros Trench.”

A tall, lanky sailor entered the wardroom carrying a thermos of coffee. He nervously cleared his throat upon spotting the newly arrived officer seated at the table’s head.

“What can I get for you. Captain?” managed the sailor, whose soft voice had a southern drawl to it.

“Some coffee for starters,” replied Slater.

“What kind of hot cereal do we have this morning?”

“I believe it’s oatmeal, sir,” said the redheaded sailor, whose hand slightly shook as he filled Slater’s ceramic mug with piping hot coffee.

“That will be fine,” said Slater, who looked the young sailor in the eye and continued.

“Say, you’re new aboard Lewis and Clark, aren’t you, son?”

“That I am, sir,” replied the seaman rather sheepishly.

“Well, what’s your name and where are you from?” asked Slater as he warmed his hands on the sides of the mug.

“I’m Seaman Second Class Homer Morgan, sir, from Eureka Springs, Arkansas.”

There was a look of fondness on Slater’s face as he responded to this revelation.

“That’s beautiful country, Seaman Morgan. My wife’s family is from Little Rock, and several years ago they took me on a float trip on the Buffalo River. Boy, did we ever have a wonderful time.”

“Why I practically grew up on the Buffalo,” revealed Homer Morgan with a bit more enthusiasm.

“I envy you, son,” said Slater dreamily.

Not certain what to say next. Homer Morgan shyly diverted his glance downwards and turned for the galley to get the captain’s oatmeal. Around the wardroom table, a moment of introspective silence followed. Slater sipped his coffee, and visualized his week spent with Mimi and her mother and father in the magnificent wilds of northwest Arkansas. Tim Bressler finished off his hotcakes, while Lieutenant Ferrell folded up the chart and stood.

“I’ll be in control monitoring our course change, sir,” said the navigator.

“We’ll join you there,” instructed Slater, who caught his navigator’s glance and added.

“The key element in this whole approach will be locating the Andros Trench, and then following it straight into the test range. Can you handle it, Mr. Ferrell?”

“No trouble, sir,” returned the navigator as he turned for the forward doorway and just missed colliding into Seaman Morgan, who had been rushing into the compartment with the captain’s breakfast in hand.

Slater sweetened his oatmeal with honey, and was in the process of pouring in some skim milk, when the intercom rang. It was Tim Bressler who alertly picked up the nearest telephone handset and spoke into the transmitter.

“XO here.”

“Officer of the Deck, sir,” replied a steady voice on the other end of the line.

“We’ve got an unidentified submerged contact, designated Sierra three.”

“Have the tracking party initiate a TMA,” returned Bressler.

“I’ll be right with you.”

The XO hung up the handset and addressed Slater.

“Sonar contact. Skipper. Suspected submarine.”

Pete Slater hastily swallowed down a mouthful of oatmeal and stood.

“It never fails to happen right at mealtime. Lead the way, XO.”

It took them less than a minute to reach the control room, where they joined a bespectacled, blond-haired officer beside the firecontrol console.

“What have you got Officer of the Deck?” greeted Slater.

The OOD pointed towards the ceiling-mounted repeater screen.

“Sierra three is bearing three-two-five, at approximately five thousand yards, sir.”

“How many ranges do you have on it?” quizzed Slater.

“Two, Captain,” answered the OOD.

“And how many legs?” asked Tim Bressler.

“This is our fourth, sir,” returned the OOD.

“Why don’t we take a look and see precisely where we are,” offered Slater, who led the way over to navigation.

Todd Ferrell was draped over a detailed bathymetric chart of Northeast Providence Channel, and barely looked up with the arrival of the three newcomers.

“Where are we, Mr. Ferrell?” questioned Slater.

The navigator picked up a blue grease pencil and made a small x in the waters off the northeastern coast of Andros Island.

“Our latest SINS update puts us right here, sir,” he reported.

“We’re scheduled to make our turn to the southeast and enter Tongue of the Ocean in another seven minutes.”

“This is one hell of a time to have a bogey in our midst,” reflected Bressler.

Pete Slater thoughtfully rubbed his dimpled chin, as he studied the chart.

“We’ve still got plenty of room.

Let’s maneuver and get another leg on him.”

“Will do, Captain,” responded the OOD as he turned for the helm to carry out this directive.

With his gaze still centered on the chart. Slater quietly expressed himself.

“If it is indeed another submarine out there, you can bet the farm that it’s not one of ours. These waters have been cleared for our use only.”

“Do you want to sound battle stations. Skipper?” asked Bressler.

“Let’s hold off until we get a definite tag on it,” answered Slater.

“Who knows, maybe Sierra three is nothing but a wayward whale.”

“And what if it turns out to be a hostile?” asked Ferrell.

Slater looked up and directly met the navigator’s concerned glance.

“Then the Lewis and Clark will do what she does best, Mr. Ferrell. And afterwards, we’ll be able to attain our destination as planned, this time with the waters of the Andros Trench all to ourselves.”

Back in the boat’s wardroom. Homer Morgan was surprised to find the compartment completely empty.

The captain had barely touched his oatmeal and his coffee. As the sailor cleared off the table, he wondered if the food was at fault, and he made certain to pass on his suspicions upon returning to the galley.

“It seems the CO doesn’t like our chow. Chief,” commented Homer to his immediate superior. Petty Officer First Class Vince Cunnetto.

The Lewis and Clark’s portly head cook barely paid this observation any attention as he completed a minor repair to the trash compactor.

“That’s news to me,” managed Cunnetto, who studied the gasket that he had just installed on the compactor’s inner lid.

“Well I just returned from the wardroom and the captain left behind a bowl of oatmeal and most of his joe,” added Homer.

Cunnetto held back his response until he was certain that the gasket was properly fitted.

“Most likely, he was called away by an emergency of some sort. Homer.

The old man enjoys his hot cereal in the morning, and I’ve yet to hear a complaint out of him.”

To make certain that his cooking wasn’t the cause, Cunnetto walked over to the stove and sampled the remaining oatmeal. It tasted fine to him, and after diluting it with a cup of hot water, he readdressed Seaman Morgan.

“If you’re gonna make it here in the galley, you can’t take leftovers so seriously. Homer. The crew is frequently called back to work at unexpected times, and you’ll be encountering your fair share of waste that has nothing to do with poor quality.” “I hear you. Chief,” said Homer apologetically.

“It’s just that this being my first day servin’ the wardroom and all, I wanted things to be perfect.”

“What do you think of Captain Slater, Homer?” quizzed Cunnetto as he returned to the compactor and pulled open its upper lid.

“He sure seemed like a nice fellow, Chief. He even noticed that I was new, and took the time to ask my name and where I was from. Did you know that his wife was from Little Rock, and that he once floated the Buffalo river with her parents? Why I practically grew up on that river!”

“You don’t say,” mumbled Cunnetto, whose attention had refocused itself on double-checking the fit of the gasket. Satisfied that all looked well, he sealed the lid shut and reached over to turn the unit on.

The compactor activated with a low-pitched, grinding hum. Several seconds later, it turned itself off and Cunnetto anxiously opened the lid. A satisfied smirk painted his moustached face as he lifted out a heavy, black plastic bag filled with tightly compacted trash.

“Did you know that this is the second repair that I successfully completed this morning. Homer? Sometimes I think that I should have been a mechanic.”

“What else did you fix?” questioned Homer.

“The TDU,” responded Cunnetto as he handed his shipmate the garbage bag.

“Follow me and I’ll show ya.”

It took both hands for Homer to lift the bag and carry it across the galley to an adjoining space where the TDU, or trash disposal unit, was located. It was through this opening to the sea beyond that the sub’s trash was ejected. Several more plastic bags of garbage lay on the deck here, and Cunnetto opened the TDU’s main chute and pointed inside.

“Remember yesterday when we went to shoot the trash and we couldn’t get the unit to seal properly,” commented Cunnetto.

Homer nodded that he did as Cunnetto continued.

“Well I thought about the problem all night, and figured that it couldn’t be anything too serious. Sure enough, this morning when I went to take a closer look I found a can caught in the ball valve. I cleared it in time to start breakfast. Load it up and let’s give it a try.”

Homer managed to drop each of the plastic bundles into the chute, noting the sickening ripe scent that emanated from the garbage bags that had been stored on the deck. With great relief he torqued shut the hatch and backed away.

“Homer, you look a little green around the gills,” observed Cunnetto with a wink.

“Now you can just imagine what this whole boat would have smelled like if the TDU were inoperable during the rest of this patrol.

Stand by to shoot the trash, while I get permission to unlock from the Chief of the Watch.”

“Receiving hull popping noises from the contact, Captain,” reported the OOD.

“Sonar classifies Sierra three a hostile submerged contact by the nature of this sound.”

“Man battle stations!” ordered Slater forcefully.

A steady electronic tone began warbling in the background as Slater and his XO gathered behind the firecontrol console, where they were met by Ensign Lockhart, the head of the tracking party.

“Captain,” said Lockhart, “Sierra three appears to be in the first convergence zone, with a range of two one thousand yards. Its course is westerly, at a speed of seven knots.”

“Has sonar been able to run a signature I.D. check on it?” questioned Slater.

Ensign Lockhart nodded.

“That they have, sir. Preliminary data show Sierra three to be a Russian fast attack sub.”

Bressler winced with this revelation.

“Great, just the type of vessel we want to lead into our underwater test range.”

“I doubt that they’ve got a definite on us, XO,” offered Slater.

“Ensign Lockhart, inform sonar to initiate a self-noise check.”

Slater and Bressler were in the process of returning to navigation, when Ensign Lockhart’s voice spoke out tensely.

“Captain, sonar reports that we’re making noise aft.”

“What?” retorted Slater, who vented his rage on the nearest intercom handset.

“Lieutenant Worth, what the hell’s going on back there?”

The Lewis and Clark’s reactor officer answered directly.

“Water pump failure. Captain. We’re switching over to the auxiliary unit, and I’ll have us buttoned down as soon as possible.”

Slater disgustedly hung up the handset and addressed his XO.

“Murphy’s law strikes again. We’ve got a malfunctioning water pump.”

“That bogey will have us for sure now,” said Bressler.

“Maybe we can lose them in the layer.” “Good idea,” said Slater as he turned towards the two seated planes men positioned forward in the control room.

“We’re going up through the layer. I’ve got the conn. Make your depth nine-zero feet.”

“Nine-zero feet, aye, sir,” returned the diving officer.

“Helm, five degrees up on the fair water planes.”

“Five degrees up on the fair water planes, aye,” repeated the helmsman as he pulled back on his control yoke.

The sub’s rounded bow angled upwards, and as it crossed into the layer of relatively warm water near the sea’s surface. Lieutenant Worth informed them that the auxiliary water pump was now online. Seconds later, sonar reported that the Lewis and Clark was no longer making unwanted noise, and Slater’s relief was noticeable.

“They’ve lost us now, XO. No way could they follow us with all this surface noise topside.”

“Now where to, Skipper?” asked Bressler.

Slater answered while scanning the instruments mounted before the helm.

“It’s time to take us back beneath the layer and get on with our mission. The Lewis and Clark has got a date to keep in the Andros Trench.”

As both of the boat’s senior officers turned for navigation, neither of them paid attention to the chief of the watch as he picked up the intercom and fielded a question from Chief Cunnetto in the galley. Without a second’s hesitation, the watch chief denied Cunnetto’s request to shoot the trash, instructing him instead to concentrate his efforts on preparing his compartment for a deep dive.

Homer Morgan was the only one in the galley whom Chief Cunnetto failed to inform of the dive. Still waiting in the tight space reserved for the TDU, Homer reached out for a handhold when the bow unexpectedly pointed downwards at a steep thirty-degree angle.

It took a total effort on his part to remain standing, and he breathlessly listened as several implements went crashing to the deck outside in the food-preparation area.

Unwanted sound was every submariner’s worst nightmare, and Homer knew that a can crashing to the deck could reveal their position to an enemy. Ever since being assigned to the galley staff. Chief Cunnetto had emphasized this fact to him, and Homer could picture the mess crew as they frantically struggled to stow away the rest of their gear. He wasn’t surprised when the chief forcefully called out to him:

“Homer, get the hell in here and give us a hand!” “Should I shoot the trash?” asked Homer before abandoning his post. Before Cunnetto could answer him, the pot holding the oatmeal went sliding off the stove, and one of the cooks caught it just before it tumbled to the floor.

“Empty that damn thing, sailor!” ordered the chief angrily.

Thinking that Cunnetto was responding to his question, Homer reached out to activate the TDU. He flooded down the chamber, and adjusted the pressure until it was equal to that of the surrounding sea. Then he opened the outer hatch and depressed the button that was supposed to launch the trash into the depths beyond. Strangely enough, the trash remained in the tube, and when he depressed the button once more, the interior hatch sprang open and Homer was sprayed with a shower of icy seawater. As the torrent intensified, Homer was thrown to the slippery deck by a pressurized column of water that had the force of a fire hose.

“Flooding in the galley! I show the TDU open to the seal ” The watch officer’s words of alarm filled the control room crew with instant dread, and prompted an immediate response from the sub’s captain.

“Blow all ballast! Emergency surface!”

Before the diving officer could convey this directive, Ensign Lockhart frantically called out for all to hear.

“Sonar reports that Sierra three has broken the layer directly above us, Captain. If we ascend now, we’ll smack right into them!”

“Belay that order to surface!” cried Slater.

“Secure all watertight doors and get those pumps working.

XO, I want you to get down to the galley and size up the situation. The TDU hatch has a manual backup that can be closed if all else fails.”

“Aye, aye. Skipper,” said Bressler, who quickly rushed out the aft passageway.

Slater turned his attention back to the helm.

“How’s she handling?”

“Sluggishly, sir,” reported the senior planes man as he struggled to pull back on his control yoke.

Immediately beside the helmsman, the watch officer anxiously surveyed the gauges of his console.

“If we take on much more seawater, we’ll never be able to pull out of this dive, Captain,” he warned.

“Stand by to blow emergency,” instructed Slater.

“If the TDU can’t be sealed in the next couple of minutes, we’ll just have to take our chances with a collision.”

Back in the galley, Homer struggled to pick himself up off the soaked deck. The water was halfway up to his knees, and continued to pour out of the ruptured hatch with a frightening velocity.

“Damn it. Homer! What in the hell did you do?” shouted Chief Cunnetto from the flooded galley.

To be heard over the crash of the onrushing seawater, Homer had to scream his response.

“I’m sorry, Chief. All I did was shoot the trash.”

“You idiot! I never gave you permission to activate the TDU,” returned the enraged chief.

“And now we’re gonna pay for your incompetence with our lives!”

A knot formed in Homer’s gut as he realized the seriousness of their predicament. Though he could have sworn that he had heard his superior order him to empty the TDU, excuses meant nothing now. All that mattered was stopping the flow of water before the chiefs grim prediction came true.

While Homer was wondering what he could do to dam the flow of water, the XO arrived in the galley.

Lieutenant Commander Bressler carried an emergency breathing apparatus and headed straight for Homer. The ever-deepening water made his progress difficult, and his knees were covered by the time he reached his goal.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Homer, his voice cracking from both fear and the cold.

Tim Bressler ignored this apology, focusing his attention instead on the column of seawater that poured through the ruptured hatch. The TDU itself would soon be covered, and the XO looked over at Homer and asked a single question.

“Can you swim, sailor?”

Homer shook his head that he could, and Bressler continued.

“There’s a hand crank located alongside the right wall of the TDU. By turning it clockwise you should be able to close the ball valve and reseal the hatch.” “I can find it, sir,” said Homer anxiously.

“Then go to it,” returned the XO, who handed Homer the emergency breathing apparatus.

Known as an EBA for short, the device was comprised of a rubber mask that was connected to a small oxygen tank by a hose. It was designed to provide up to thirty minutes of air, and Homer readily strapped it on.

“I’m going to call in an update to the captain. Good luck, sailor,” offered the XO.

Thankful for this second chance to prove himself, Homer proceeded at once to the ruptured hatch. With the assistance of the EBA, he ducked beneath the wildly spraying water and reached the bulkhead where the TDU was located. Trying his best to ignore the water’s numbing chill, he extended his right arm into the hatch and blindly groped for the hand crank.

Pete Slater received his XO’s optimistic update while perched beside the sub’s helm. Bressler estimated that the opening to the sea could be closed in another couple of minutes, yet Slater wondered if they could hold out that long.

The depth gauge had fallen below seven hundred feet, and continued to drop. Though the Lewis and Clark’s hull was designed to survive over twice this depth. Slater dared not put it to such a demanding test. “I’ve got the results of our latest sounding,” informed the navigator.

“We’ve got a good thousand feet of water below us, putting us well within the mouth of the Andros Trench.”

“The pumps are operating at full capacity,” reported the officer of the watch.

“They just can’t handle all that volume.”

The hull seemed to moan in protest as they dropped below seven hundred and fifty feet. Slater’s grip on the ceiling-mounted handhold instinctively tightened.

Their angle of descent was well over thirty degrees now, and he could feel the pull of gravity pulling them ever downwards on this dive into oblivion.

“To hell with that Russian sub!” cried Slater.

“Blow emergency ballast! We’re heading topside no matter what lies above us.”

It seemed to take an eternity for Homer to locate the hand crank. By the time he did so, he was completely submerged. As instructed, he turned the crank in a clockwise direction, and slowly but surely the valve began to close.

The current of water that had been surging from the hatch lessened, and Homer turned the crank until the flood ceased. He was in the process of pulling himself out of the water when the deck began vibrating wildly beneath him. Thrown backwards by this unexpected movement, he sank beneath the five feet of seawater that had accumulated on the deck below.

The forceful vibration continued to affect him even underwater. By tightly gripping a submerged portion of pipe, he was able to keep from being smashed up against the madly shaking bulkhead. Fearing that his mask would be jarred loose. Homer listened as a bubbling roar sounded in the background. It got louder and louder, until it was almost deafening. The wildly shaking waters, and this ear-shattering sound, had an almost delirious effect on Homer, and his thoughts went back in time to his adolescence, and the day he had almost drowned while in the midst of a float trip.

His canoe had overturned in the middle of a particularly nasty set of rapids, and he had found himself pinned beneath the aluminum vessel, with his body jammed up against a huge, partially submerged boulder.

This was as close to death as Homer had ever come, and he survived only through an unwavering faith in a Lord he was just discovering, and a strong will to live.

Only by summoning these same qualities did Seaman Second Class Homer Morgan regain his senses.

And as his thoughts returned to his present predicament, he fought off the urge to let go and die. Oblivious to the gut-wrenching vibration, and the demonic shriek that penetrated the very depths of his soul, he managed to reach upwards and grasp the iron rail that encircled the TDU. And he began the short journey out of his watery sarcophagus.