GWOT V - Death In The Dark
Jun. 21st, 2023 08:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT V - Death In The Dark
[Dedicated to the five crew of the private submersible _Titan_, missing but not yet lost as of the time of this writing. May their fate be merciful.]
The compartment was bitterly cold.
All of them were shivering. The reactor was scrammed, fortunately. Or perhaps not so much.
The back third of the submarine was wrecked. Hatches had held. Many crew had died, horribly but swiftly, as water crushed them against the compartment walls. Not even enough time to drown.
On the deck in front of them, an oxygen candle was burning. They appreciated the heat. But it was the last one.
They passed from hand to hand the lung-powered CO2 scrubbers and masks. A few breaths, then on to the next sailor. It helped with the lightheadedness and gave them something to do other than think about impending doom.
What fragmentary instruments they had left, and their last position on the charts before being hit, suggested that they were deep underwater. Well below the depth at which self-rescue would be possible, even if the Mom hatch was accessible from the compartments that still held pressure.
It wasn't.
So they were dead.
Doctrine differed on what to do now. Two sailors were writing detailed notes on what had happened. Their engagement with the Californian pipe bomb submarines. How they had been ambushed. The notes, and copies of the log, sealed in pressurized bright orange cylinders. To be found long after they were dead.
They had enough morphine to die peacefully. If rescue was expected, most of the crew would be given what would normally be an overdose. Enough to sleep peacefully, and if the oxygen depleted sufficiently, simply never wake up. Extending the time for a handful of crew - the most rigorously trained, the engineers and deep sea divers - to assist in the rescue.
But there would be no rescue. The Pacific was no longer America's ocean. The handful of DSRVs that remained to America were on the East Coast, and there was no question of bringing them across enemy airspace to waters that America no longer controlled.
There was still a hatch. The sail hatch. But it was not intended for escape use. Open it, and the compartment would flood, shorting much of the remaining electronics and ending any hope of using battery power if the other compartments held.
Perfunctorily, a sailor banged with a small hammer on the deck every five minutes. But it was only a gesture. Perhaps the remaining Pacific fragments of SOSUS would pick it up. But there was nothing America could do with the information.
Suddenly, an enormous BONG tone rocked the hull.
Active sonar. And close.
The crew looked at each other. The Captain needed no morphine; his head injury was such that he was unlikely to wake up. Nonetheless he was connected by a nasal cannula to one of the last remaining medical oxygen cylinders. Such was the power of rank, even at the end.
This left it up to the XO.
They could still scuttle. There were charges. The XO snapped his fingers. "Chief, your sidearm."
The chief of the boat had his .45 pistol. He checked chamber.
"Yes, Exec?"
There were other weapons. But they were in compartments they could no longer reach.
"I have a feeling. Destruction bill, if you please."
The crew, moving slowly and sluggishly in the cold and green-lit dark, moved towards various stations. Getting out tools. Sledge hammers and crowbars in the main. Smashing things.
One of the burner chambers for the oxygen candle was stuffed with sensitive papers. It would be lit at the last moment, should such come. The chief of the boat would make sure of it. The products of combustion would finish off the survivors. That was why the pistol.
Then they heard a triple clanging. Bang bang bang.
Against the sail hatch. The hatch up, that would lead to the sky if they were surfaced. They were not, of course, surfaced.
The chief and the XO looked at each other. The crypto module was smashed. The papers, not all that important. The really important ones, in the safes, were out of reach anyway.
A pause. Bang bang bang.
Knocking on the door.
It would be impossible to open the hatch against any pressure at all. But it should be impossible for anything to bang against that hatch. Especially in that triple beat which meant "Open the hatch!"
"Hide your pistol," the XO said, and laborously climbed the ladder to the sail. He gasped for breath despite being in excellent health.
He undogged the hatch. Nothing should happen. The relentless pressure of the sea should hold it closed.
The dogs gave way freely. So he turned the handle.
The hatch opened.
A hard faced woman was on the other side. Ridiculously, she wore a combat soldier's helmet. Her face was obscured by a pattern of swirling black makeup. She held a machine pistol at the ready, a compact ball of death. Behind her and past her ear, a rifle barrel. Beyond that, another submarine's compartment.
"Commander. You are ordered to surrender your vessel," she barked.
He then saw the California sailor on the other side of her. With the thermite grenade in his hand.
He opened his hands, careful to balance against his position in the narrow sail compartment.
"We surrender."
"Order your crew to make their way up, one by one. You have ninety seconds for the first to take your place."
The XO climbed down, almost as slowly as he had climbed up.
"In reverse order of rank, up the ladder. One by one. The Captain, the Chief and myself will be the last."
The sailors looked at each other. Reluctantly, a nub - a new sailor - climbed the ladder.
There was little noise. Heavy footfalls on the ladder, some rustling.
The next followed.
Soon it was only the three of them. There had been thirty.
So it was no DSRV that had mated with them.
If they cared, they could try to take the Californian submarine with them into death. Perhaps flooding their compartments and flooding the connecting compartment of the Californian sub would be enough. But perhaps not.
If he could get to the torpedo tubes. Or even certain reactor controls.
But he could not make it certain.
His eye slid across the Captain's snoring prone body.
What would he have done?
"Chief. Hand me your pistol, if you would."
He did. A further silent gesture, and he started climbing the ladder.
Now it was only the two of them.
"Attention below. We are coming down. Call out or you will be shot."
His options were narrowing swiftly.
He lightly slid the pistol into the scuppers.
"Two left. One is unconscious with a head injury," he shouted back.
"Hands on your head, sir," was the reply.
He did so.
Several California sailors, and the one Marine, climbed down into the compartment. All armed.
Even now, that surprised him. So many guns, even if most were pistols.
One sailor considered the burner chamber stuffed with papers.
"No good, sir. Sitrep."
"Aft compartments inaccessible. Reactor scrammed. Torpedo room hatch jammed."
A backboard was passed down the ladder with a vertical rope. The captain was safely lashed to it, for vertical rescue. The motions of the sailors were swift and competent and practiced. Soon it was lifted. A sailor even turned off the oxygen cylinder where it lay forlorn on the deck.
"Sir. Will you give your parole or must you be restrained?"
American officers did not give parole. That was military law.
But if he were to resist, he should have done so instead of opening the hatch at all.
"I give my parole so long as we are submerged," the XO said finally.
"Very well. You will cooperate with the prize crew."
Prize crew?
Prize crew?!?
"We're going to float her off the bottom. Likely will take several hours."
Packages were being lowered into the compartment. More oxygen candles, scrubbers, food and water, hydraulic rams. Salvage gear.
He marveled at the bravery of the California sailors.
They were voluntarily marooning themselves with him, trusting in the rescue operation.
"It's a life support issue," one said. "We want to get your crew to the surface to extend our own loiter time."
One sailor, with a headset and fiber optic connection to his own ship, started writing with grease pencil on the wall. Compartment by compartment. Which might be accessible while still submerged. Which might still contain survivors. Drone imaging of the externals of the crippled American submarine.
"We hear banging from crew berthing. So we're on the clock here," the sailor said.
The hatch above slammed and the sailor took off his headset.
It must be the CO2 buildup. Or perhaps the depleted oxygen, despite the additional oxygen candles brought and lit by the Californian salvors.
They meant to save as many sailors as they could.
Not technical intelligence.
Human life.
Allies against the unforgiving absence of light.
That, he could cooperate with.
[Dedicated to the five crew of the private submersible _Titan_, missing but not yet lost as of the time of this writing. May their fate be merciful.]
The compartment was bitterly cold.
All of them were shivering. The reactor was scrammed, fortunately. Or perhaps not so much.
The back third of the submarine was wrecked. Hatches had held. Many crew had died, horribly but swiftly, as water crushed them against the compartment walls. Not even enough time to drown.
On the deck in front of them, an oxygen candle was burning. They appreciated the heat. But it was the last one.
They passed from hand to hand the lung-powered CO2 scrubbers and masks. A few breaths, then on to the next sailor. It helped with the lightheadedness and gave them something to do other than think about impending doom.
What fragmentary instruments they had left, and their last position on the charts before being hit, suggested that they were deep underwater. Well below the depth at which self-rescue would be possible, even if the Mom hatch was accessible from the compartments that still held pressure.
It wasn't.
So they were dead.
Doctrine differed on what to do now. Two sailors were writing detailed notes on what had happened. Their engagement with the Californian pipe bomb submarines. How they had been ambushed. The notes, and copies of the log, sealed in pressurized bright orange cylinders. To be found long after they were dead.
They had enough morphine to die peacefully. If rescue was expected, most of the crew would be given what would normally be an overdose. Enough to sleep peacefully, and if the oxygen depleted sufficiently, simply never wake up. Extending the time for a handful of crew - the most rigorously trained, the engineers and deep sea divers - to assist in the rescue.
But there would be no rescue. The Pacific was no longer America's ocean. The handful of DSRVs that remained to America were on the East Coast, and there was no question of bringing them across enemy airspace to waters that America no longer controlled.
There was still a hatch. The sail hatch. But it was not intended for escape use. Open it, and the compartment would flood, shorting much of the remaining electronics and ending any hope of using battery power if the other compartments held.
Perfunctorily, a sailor banged with a small hammer on the deck every five minutes. But it was only a gesture. Perhaps the remaining Pacific fragments of SOSUS would pick it up. But there was nothing America could do with the information.
Suddenly, an enormous BONG tone rocked the hull.
Active sonar. And close.
The crew looked at each other. The Captain needed no morphine; his head injury was such that he was unlikely to wake up. Nonetheless he was connected by a nasal cannula to one of the last remaining medical oxygen cylinders. Such was the power of rank, even at the end.
This left it up to the XO.
They could still scuttle. There were charges. The XO snapped his fingers. "Chief, your sidearm."
The chief of the boat had his .45 pistol. He checked chamber.
"Yes, Exec?"
There were other weapons. But they were in compartments they could no longer reach.
"I have a feeling. Destruction bill, if you please."
The crew, moving slowly and sluggishly in the cold and green-lit dark, moved towards various stations. Getting out tools. Sledge hammers and crowbars in the main. Smashing things.
One of the burner chambers for the oxygen candle was stuffed with sensitive papers. It would be lit at the last moment, should such come. The chief of the boat would make sure of it. The products of combustion would finish off the survivors. That was why the pistol.
Then they heard a triple clanging. Bang bang bang.
Against the sail hatch. The hatch up, that would lead to the sky if they were surfaced. They were not, of course, surfaced.
The chief and the XO looked at each other. The crypto module was smashed. The papers, not all that important. The really important ones, in the safes, were out of reach anyway.
A pause. Bang bang bang.
Knocking on the door.
It would be impossible to open the hatch against any pressure at all. But it should be impossible for anything to bang against that hatch. Especially in that triple beat which meant "Open the hatch!"
"Hide your pistol," the XO said, and laborously climbed the ladder to the sail. He gasped for breath despite being in excellent health.
He undogged the hatch. Nothing should happen. The relentless pressure of the sea should hold it closed.
The dogs gave way freely. So he turned the handle.
The hatch opened.
A hard faced woman was on the other side. Ridiculously, she wore a combat soldier's helmet. Her face was obscured by a pattern of swirling black makeup. She held a machine pistol at the ready, a compact ball of death. Behind her and past her ear, a rifle barrel. Beyond that, another submarine's compartment.
"Commander. You are ordered to surrender your vessel," she barked.
He then saw the California sailor on the other side of her. With the thermite grenade in his hand.
He opened his hands, careful to balance against his position in the narrow sail compartment.
"We surrender."
"Order your crew to make their way up, one by one. You have ninety seconds for the first to take your place."
The XO climbed down, almost as slowly as he had climbed up.
"In reverse order of rank, up the ladder. One by one. The Captain, the Chief and myself will be the last."
The sailors looked at each other. Reluctantly, a nub - a new sailor - climbed the ladder.
There was little noise. Heavy footfalls on the ladder, some rustling.
The next followed.
Soon it was only the three of them. There had been thirty.
So it was no DSRV that had mated with them.
If they cared, they could try to take the Californian submarine with them into death. Perhaps flooding their compartments and flooding the connecting compartment of the Californian sub would be enough. But perhaps not.
If he could get to the torpedo tubes. Or even certain reactor controls.
But he could not make it certain.
His eye slid across the Captain's snoring prone body.
What would he have done?
"Chief. Hand me your pistol, if you would."
He did. A further silent gesture, and he started climbing the ladder.
Now it was only the two of them.
"Attention below. We are coming down. Call out or you will be shot."
His options were narrowing swiftly.
He lightly slid the pistol into the scuppers.
"Two left. One is unconscious with a head injury," he shouted back.
"Hands on your head, sir," was the reply.
He did so.
Several California sailors, and the one Marine, climbed down into the compartment. All armed.
Even now, that surprised him. So many guns, even if most were pistols.
One sailor considered the burner chamber stuffed with papers.
"No good, sir. Sitrep."
"Aft compartments inaccessible. Reactor scrammed. Torpedo room hatch jammed."
A backboard was passed down the ladder with a vertical rope. The captain was safely lashed to it, for vertical rescue. The motions of the sailors were swift and competent and practiced. Soon it was lifted. A sailor even turned off the oxygen cylinder where it lay forlorn on the deck.
"Sir. Will you give your parole or must you be restrained?"
American officers did not give parole. That was military law.
But if he were to resist, he should have done so instead of opening the hatch at all.
"I give my parole so long as we are submerged," the XO said finally.
"Very well. You will cooperate with the prize crew."
Prize crew?
Prize crew?!?
"We're going to float her off the bottom. Likely will take several hours."
Packages were being lowered into the compartment. More oxygen candles, scrubbers, food and water, hydraulic rams. Salvage gear.
He marveled at the bravery of the California sailors.
They were voluntarily marooning themselves with him, trusting in the rescue operation.
"It's a life support issue," one said. "We want to get your crew to the surface to extend our own loiter time."
One sailor, with a headset and fiber optic connection to his own ship, started writing with grease pencil on the wall. Compartment by compartment. Which might be accessible while still submerged. Which might still contain survivors. Drone imaging of the externals of the crippled American submarine.
"We hear banging from crew berthing. So we're on the clock here," the sailor said.
The hatch above slammed and the sailor took off his headset.
It must be the CO2 buildup. Or perhaps the depleted oxygen, despite the additional oxygen candles brought and lit by the Californian salvors.
They meant to save as many sailors as they could.
Not technical intelligence.
Human life.
Allies against the unforgiving absence of light.
That, he could cooperate with.
no subject
Date: 2023-06-23 05:46 am (UTC)