Collapse Depth

Two crewmen were killed within seconds of the impact. Missile Technician Third Class Simpson had been standing atop the ladder from Missile Compartment Third Level to Lower Level when the collision occurred. Out of every eighteen hour period at sea, Simpson roamed the missile compartment for six, a billy club on his belt and a clipboard in his hand, watching over all twenty-four missiles much like a zookeeper watches his animals, monitoring their temperature, their humidity, and their general well-being. He was preparing to climb down into missile compartment lower level when the ship hit. He was thrown forward, then fell down the ladder. His chin struck the deck plate just forward of the ladder, snapping his head back as he fell and breaking his neck. He was dead before he hit the deckplates.

The other death was Petty Officer Juani, the torpedoman on watch whom Hallorann had seen laughing at his computer screen immediately before discovering the dying navigator. Earlier that watch he’d done some minor maintenance on one of the idle torpedo trays, re-attaching a nylon roller that had come loose during the last time they “indexed” the torpedoes, or moved them around the space. While he had placed the large tool box back in its proper position, he had failed to lash it in place with the nylon straps that were there for that purpose. When the ship hit the seamount, the tool box shot forward, aimed at Juani’s skull with an assassin’s precision. His entire head was flattened, and he was dead without ever realizing what had happened.

Almost everyone not hurt critically was shaken or dazed. As quickly as they could, they picked themselves up, and without waiting for an alarm or an announcement, moved toward their stations to fight to save the ship.

• • •

The hull itself was badly deformed where it struck the seamount, but remained intact, a testament to the overcaution of the submarine’s designers and the strength of HY80 steel. A large breech through the actual wall of the hull would have been impossible to staunch, and the forward compartment, at that depth, would have filled completely with seawater in minutes until the ship could never rise again. In the language of submarine design, the ship didn’t have enough “reserve buoyancy” to overcome a completely flooded forward compartment, even with an emergency blow of all main ballast tanks, even if all the main ballast tanks had survived the collision.

But along the port side of the ship, one of the ship’s four torpedo tubes was deformed, its perfectly circular opening pushed into an oval, an oval that the round brass breech door no longer sealed. The sea pressure was so great at that depth that the water entered the hull through that crescent-shaped gap with an almost explosive force, a roar that sounded more like an oncoming freight train than flowing liquid. Seaman Hallorann, still clutching the navigator’s body a few feet away, heard it and assumed at first that it was a high pressure air leak, because that was the only sound he’d heard in his life that could compare. He let go of the navigator’s body, got to his feet, and stumbled into the torpedo room to fight the flooding.

• • •

Jabo flew forward when the ship hit, completely destroying a stationary bicycle that was mounted to the deck in front of him, and briefly losing consciousness. When he awoke, he felt the steep, odd angle of the stopped ship, and he heard people running above him, at the berthing level. He was groggy, and thoroughly entangled in the remains of the bike, but as he got to his feet, he determined that the worst thing wrong with him was a badly torn uniform. He wondered if he’d missed an announcement while knocked out. He realized with a start that he must know more about what had happened to the Alabama than any man onboard. Any man, that is, other than the navigator. The navigator, he realized again, the navigator did this. He’d tried to kill them all. He’d also set the fire in the laundry, and killed Howard with the Freon. Now, with the whole crew fighting for their lives, who knew what else he might be capable of. He had to tell someone. His ears popped painfully as the flooding caused a pressure change; he swallowed to clear them.

He stood up in the lower level between the two rows of missiles. He was okay. Whatever was wrong with the ship, he was going to fight.

He ran forward through the passageway between the two rows of missiles. He felt strong and in control, grateful to be of sound mind and body after the collision. He was an officer of the United States Navy’s submarine force, and he wanted to get quickly to where there was the most danger, to fight it in the way he was trained. And, if along the way, he found the navigator, he was going to beat the shit out of him.