Ghost Sub полностью

Everyone took their positions in control in an exact repeat of the day before. The only difference was that everyone, from the captain down to the newest cook in the crew’s mess, knew what they were about to do. But if anyone was gripped by doubt, they would have the benefit of that inertia, the reassurance of repetition. It was something they knew well on Tridents, Danny recalled, where every man knew at an abstract level that someday he might be called on to launch the nuclear missiles that could end the world. To defeat the normal human trepidation about that, they drilled constantly on the launch sequence, both to become proficient, and to make it seem routine.

“Are we ready?” asked the captain, already on the conn.

“Ready, captain.”

“Torpedoes loaded?”

“Loaded sir. V-12 and I watched them do the last one.”

“Very well,” said the captain. “When the time comes, shoot tubes one and two.”

“Shoot tubes one and two, aye, sir.”

Danny took a look at Van’s paperwork, then went over to focus on the chart.

The bright red line indicating Boise’s track was right in front of them. They were trailing behind her, waiting for their 0600 signal, the pinging that had guided them in. Danny checked his watch: 0530. He also looked at their depth: 280 feet. A more normal depth that would hopefully prevent that would prevent anything like yesterday where the Boise’s sound had drifted away from them, perhaps because of Danny’s brilliant idea to stay deep. Now they just needed to wait for the pinging.

V-12 appeared at his side with an XBT print out. “Completely flat,” he said.

“Good,” said Jabo. “We should be able to hear her.”

“At 0600?” said V-12, checking his watch.

“Let’s hope so,” said Danny. Since his apparent victory yesterday, the whole crew had adopted as gospel that the Boise would helpfully broadcast a loud noise every day starting at 0600. Danny wasn’t so sure. “I’d feel a lot more confident about that if I knew exactly what that sound was.”

“Who cares?” said V-12. “As long as she keeps doing it.”

“Right,” said Danny.

He stepped over to Van on the conn.

“Ready?”

Van exhaled. “I think so…”

“The proper answer to that question is, ‘I’m ready to be relieved.’”

“Oh, shit… sorry Nav…”

“I’m just screwing with you,” said Danny, putting his hand on his elbow. “Relax. But I am here to relieve you. You’ve got about ten minutes to grab something to eat before battle stations if you want.”

“Ok… cool,” he said. “Ship is on course two-seven-zero, 280 feet, and five knots.”

“Very well,” said Danny. “I relieve you.”

“I stand relieved.”

“This is Lieutenant Jabo,” he said. “I have the deck and the conn.”

The control room watchstanders acknowledged in turn. Danny caught the captain’s eye briefly. They nodded at each other.

“You going to call away Battle Stations?” he said.

“I’m going to wait,” said Danny. “Give the off going section ten minutes to eat and use the head.”

“Good thinking,” said the captain.

In truth, Danny remembered how slowly the time had gone the day before, and he didn’t feel like staring at his watch, watching the seconds tick by for a full thirty minutes before anything happened.

At 0550 Danny gave the order. The COW picked up his microphone and announced “Battle Stations!”

There was less running around than normal, fewer heavy footsteps on the deck plates, because everyone was in position already. Within minutes, the COW announced that all stations had reported, and that they were ready. Danny thought that’s how it must be during war. Battle stations wasn’t an event, it was a state of mind, everybody ready to fight all the time.

“Very well,” said Danny. He picked up the 27MC microphone that connected him to sonar and the torpedo room. “Flood tubes one and two.”

The captain looked at his watch as the torpedo room acknowledged the order. “It’s 0600.”

“Aye sir,” said Danny. He was hoping that the pinging would start again immediately.

The inside of the Boise was almost completely dark now, including the Chiefs’ Quarters. One by one, the lighting busses had tripped off as a result of the small fires and the resultant circuit breaker trips. Most of the light that remained came from the indicator lights on the systems that remained working, lights that were yellow, green, and red.

Those colored lights barely penetrated the dark, or the thick haze of smoke that now permeated the ship. The air was unbreathable, filled with fumes and vapor from the fires and the slow destruction of the ship. None of the ship’s atmospheric control equipment was working, and most of the fans had tripped off, so the smoke was pooling in thick clouds in the darkness.

But the ship’s propulsion machinery continued on, designed to be the most secure, the most survivable, the last thing to die on the boat. The screw continued to turn and the ship moved forward, but these were like the shallow breaths of a man in a coma, signs of life that weren’t really alive, the core reflexes of a man whose soul had long since departed.