From Anna’s studies with her SVR contact in Severomorsk, she’d learned that the “bomb” was so named because it made hydrogen and oxygen in the exact molecular mix to explode with enough power to destroy everything in the machinery room, maybe even breach the hull. The bomb took distilled pure water into its two meter by two meter box of steel and placed it between high voltage direct current anode and cathode, the process called electrolysis, which caused the water to split into hydrogen and oxygen. Separate compressors took the products, the hydrogen put into a high-pressure bank for later discharge, since it was hazardous and there was no use for it, and submarines could be tracked by the stream of hydrogen emitted if it weren’t stored. The oxygen was compressed and put into the oxygen banks, huge high-pressure stainless steel bottles outside the hull that contained all the oxygen the crew would need for two days if the bomb decided to stop working.
An explosive device placed on the large-bore oxygen manifold at the top of the bomb, if detonated, would vent hydrogen and oxygen into the room, adding to the explosive power of the Semtex. Odds were, it would destroy half the zero three deck, she thought.
What gave her pause was that this particular task could lead to her own death. But she’d believed in her mission.
The watchstander was surprised to see her. “Captain Anna,” he said, smiling. “What are you doing here?”
“It gets boring when all you boys are at action stations,” she said, smiling seductively. At least she hoped she looked seductive. “I thought maybe you could explain to me how we keep the air breathable down under the water.”
The mechanic smiled. “I’d love to.”
Anna waited through his overly technical explanation until he turned his back to her for a moment to point out the oxygen and hydrogen piping above the unit. As he did, she pulled the PSM pistol out of her right pocket, put the barrel to back of his skull and fired twice. The mechanic was dead before he fell to the deck. The report from the weapon was loud, but she doubted anyone would be near enough to hear it. It was academic anyway, she thought. The next loud sound from here would eliminate any other thoughts from the minds of the crew. And the damage would eradicate the evidence of what happened. The mechanic’s body would only be a vapor of blood and shards of bone by the time Anna’s task was complete.
She climbed up on the steps set into the side of the bomb, found the oxygen manifold, a pipe as big around as her head. She pulled the package from her left pocket — it’s bulge never noticed by the now-dead mechanic — tore the backing from the adhesive on the device and pressed it hard against the warm pipe. From her inner left sleeve, she pulled off a quarter-meter length of fiber-reinforced adhesive tape and wrapped it around the device and the pipe. She pulled another length off her right sleeve, double wrapping the device to the pipe. She uncovered the electronics package, turned the time delay to three minutes and armed the device.
Three minutes, she thought. Would that be enough to get outside the blast radius of the atmospheric controls room?
She knew she didn’t have long to wait. She hurried down the passageway, took the steps of the ladder back to the zero one deck and walked quickly to her room. She’d barely had time to hide the PSM pistol before the Semtex — and the bomb — exploded.
“Sonar, do we still have contact on Master One?” Seagraves asked.
“Master One has faded,” Albanese said. “He might have decided to bug out after firing that supercavitating torpedo.”
Pacino looked at Vevera. “We may have to blow off this mission and limp home. We can only fight the ship as well as McDermott Aerospace and Shipbuilding designed and built it. If they’d hardened that thrust bearing against shock, we’d still be in the fight.”
Vevera nodded, his face downcast. “Maybe mention that to your dad when we get home. He’s got the juice to tune up those goddamned drydock rats.”
Captain First Rank Georgy Alexeyev bit his lip and tugged on his uncomfortable five-point seatbelt. He needed to stand, he thought, but with the nuclear-tipped torpedo to be fired in the coming moments, programmed to detonate only seven or eight nautical miles out, he knew the ship would soon be taking another hard shock. He shifted his display to the navigation plot, with the overlaid ice walls drawn in by the navigator along with their track in and out of the ice wall rectangle where they’d shot the first Gigantskiy and later, the Shkval. Navigator Maksimov had drawn in what she thought the boundaries of the open water were, at the original ice target and the Shkval impact point.
