Piranha: Firing Point

But it might be too late, Pacino thought as the fire roared out at him with renewed fury. The sound of it was enough to stop a man’s heart. A vibration started jangling at his breastbone — the timer on the canister. It had been set for fifteen minutes, the unit only good for eighteen. Pacino had to wait, though, because if he went through the hatch now, the flames would spread up into the computer room, and the toxic gas of the smoke would kill Colleen within a few seconds. But if he stayed, the flames would kill him. He could already feel his lungs straining to pull the oxygen out of the rubber lungs.

The final torpedo crash came as the flames licked up into the overhead. Pacino could feel his hair starting to singe, his rubber mask melting, the oxygen going, going.

He began to feel dizzy, dim words coming into his mind, the words swimming slowly at him, his grip on the ladder becoming tentative.

“Flooding the space. Admiral! Get out the hatch! I’m going aft!”

Pacino heard the mighty roaring of water flooding the space. Within moments he felt the cool of something at his feet, the water. It rose quickly to his chin, cooling him, mercifully cool after walking through hell. The OBA gave up then, and Pacino ditched the mask. The toxic smoke of the fire invaded his lungs. A black dizziness overcame him, sapping his mental strength. He forgot what he was about to do. He knew it was important, but it seemed to float just out of reach. The water level was now just two feet below the hatch to the computer room.

Pacino’s head collided with the hatch-release wheel.

That made him remember, he had to turn to spin the hatch. But he was too weak. The water kept rising as he tried to get a grip on the wheel. Counterclockwise, you have to turn the wheel counterclockwise to open it. He pulled as hard as he could, and the hatch undogged. He pushed on the hatch to open it, but succeeded only in pushing himself into the water. The water had grown hot from the fire. The fuel was still burning even under a roomful of seawater. They would need to flush water through the space to keep it cool, he thought, keep the fire from eating through the hull. At last he found a ladder rung, and with one last push of his hand and foot, he opened the hatch.

Up into the opening he put his hand, but he couldn’t seem to get a grip. The water level rose fully over his head, claiming him, the air gone. As he sank back into the water, he thought that maybe it just didn’t matter anymore.

USS PIRANHA, SSN-23

“Aircraft noises from bearing two seven zero. Captain,” Master Chief Henry called.

“Take her upstairs, Off sa’deck,” Bruce Phillips commanded.

The ship came shallow, Phillips himself taking the periscope as the ship came up. Water and foam washed over the lens until the scope broke through, the film of water washing away. It was pitch black outside, with no close contacts.

Phillips did an air search, but he saw nothing.

“Sonar, Captain, jet or prop?”

“Turboprop, Captain. Be careful, it could be maritime patrol. Maybe the Reds have MPA planes.”

“OOD, arm the SLAAM 80,” Phillips ordered. The Mark 80 missile, called a SLAAM, was a submarine-launched antiair missile, mounted in the sail, capable of finding a heat source on an aircraft and bringing it down.

“Shifting to infrared,” Phillips said. Immediately he picked out an airplane flying low on the horizon toward them. The effect was strange, the infrared showing heat sources as patterns of light, allowing Phillips to see inside the plane at the interior consoles and equipment, a sort of X-ray vision. The plane came down lower, then hit the water.

“Seaplane!” Phillips called. “The plane’s landed, bearing mark!”

“Two one zero.”

“Helm, right full rudder, steady course two one zero, all ahead two-thirds.”

The ship came around, closing on the seaplane rolling in the swells, its propellers stopped, quiet on the water.

Phillips shifted to high-power magnification, making out the form of men leaning out a hatch to pull other men in from the water.

“He’s doing a rescue, it’s the Reds,” he said, not quite believing it. “OOD, take the scope, surface the ship, take it over to the seaplane at full. Use HP air, no time to use the blower, and rig the bridge for surface. Move it!”

Phillips grabbed Whatney and ran to the middle level, to the small-arms locker in the centerline passageway.

Whatney fiddled with his key, finding the right one. The locker opened, and Phillips loaded Whatney with weapons.

Grabbing an automatic M-20 rifle and a Bereta 9mm pistol, he ran for the upper level.

At the ladder going up into the tunnel to the bridge on top of the sail, he bolted upward, making the thirty steps to the bridge in record time. He emerged through the grating at the top of the hatch to the night air, crisp and cool and smelling wonderful after he’d been locked in the ship for so long.