Seawolf End Game (33 page)

“
There’re at least two more Akulas in the area, old boy,”
Gardener warned Brodie.
“They’re going to come looking for you.”

Brodie’s response was dead serious, “They better be damn careful they don’t find me.”

“Good luck, Sean. Sorry to leave you like this.”

“Don’t sweat it. Buy me a pint when we get back to the beach.”

“Count on it, mate. Good hunting.”

Brodie hung up the Gertrude.

Kristen waited as Brodie received detailed damage control reports from the XO and the Chief Engineer. Graves was also soaked to the bone with seawater. Two pipes had ruptured following the first torpedo detonation, and the
Seawolf
had taken on several tons of water before they’d managed to seal the leaks.

“How’re things in sonar?” Brodie asked her after receiving Graves’ and Ski’s reports.

“Two of three port side passive arrays are off line, plus Martinez’s head went halfway through the class stack. Technicians are working to repair all damage as we speak, but the port arrays aren’t looking too promising at the moment, Captain,” Kristen reported, keeping it all business.

“Good job on the
Akula,
” Graves offered with an approving nod.

“He was good, sir,” she replied. “Plus I had a lot of help.” Kristen didn’t feel responsible for anything. A combination of factors had decided the fight with the
Akula,
and she certainly wasn’t the only cause of the hard fought victory. “Excuse me, Captain. I was hoping to go to sickbay and check on Chief Miller and Martinez.”

Brodie’s expression was unreadable. As impassive as ever. His eyes were cold and without any hint of emotion. But when Brodie didn’t answer her question, Kristen realized why. She looked at the XO with a questioning eye.

Graves’ expression was somber.

“No,” she whispered desperately.

“Doc Reed pronounced Chief Miller dead a few minutes after he got to sickbay, Lieutenant,” Graves explained sadly.

Kristen was rocked by the news. She looked at Brodie and saw, barely contained by the mask of command, something she’d yet to see in his eyes. He was trying to hide it, but there was profound pain there. “Sir?”

“Petty Officer Gibbs,” Brodie said in a barely audible tone.

Kristen felt her insides twist painfully. “No,” she whispered.

Brodie replied with a steady gaze but said no more. She knew Brodie and Gibbs were close, but as the captain, he couldn’t afford any emotion at the moment. Everyone was counting on him to keep them safe.

Graves explained, “He was in engineering when the torpedo detonated.”

Ski looked pretty broken up about it as he added, “A steam pressure line ruptured. To reach the shut off valve, someone had to go through the rushing steam.” Kristen didn’t have to hear more. The steam lines contained high-pressure steam at over a thousand degrees. No one could survive it. “He didn’t even hesitate,” Ski said, choking up.

Kristen forced down the emotions, remembering how—when she’d first come on board—it had been Gibbs who’d gone the extra mile to make her feel welcome. Now he was gone.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Brodie offered with a tightly controlled voice.

Kristen looked at them. Ski was almost crying. Graves was shaking his head in grief, but Brodie was a rock. Or perhaps he was to the others, but she knew it was all an act. He was grieving as much as, if not more than, anyone. Kristen recognized what he was doing, and knew she had to do it, too. She had to force the grief, the pain, and the sorrow down deep until the crisis was over. Fortunately, she had some experience with burying her pain.

Kristen took a deep, steadying breath and slowly exhaled, forcing the memories of Gibbs aside for the moment. “Sir, with your permission, I’d still like to check on Petty Officer Martinez.”

Brodie nodded. “We’re relaxing Zebra and going to Yoke so everyone can get some grub. Make sure you stop by the galley. We’ll need you fresh and alert if another
Akula
comes after us.”

Ski cut in bitterly, “Which will certainly happen. Everyone within a thousand miles must know we’re here by now.”

There could be no doubt about this assessment from the Chief Engineer. The Iranians would know for certain about the loss of their frigate and quite probably the loss of their
Kilo
submarines. As for the
Akula,
if it was under Russian control—which no one on the
Seawolf
knew for certain—it would have some sort of distress beacon similar to the BST-1 Buoy employed by US submarines. So, it was only a matter of time before the surrounding water filled with search and rescue craft, and other predators looking to settle the score with the
Seawolf.

Kristen went directly to sickbay. As she walked, she suppressed the guilt she felt for not having helped Miller when he’d collapsed in the sonar shack. She knew CPR; she might have been able to save him, but she’d coldly ordered him taken away and returned to her duty. The pain of losing Gibbs was far harder to suppress. He’d been a friend, certainly the closest one she’d had on the
Seawolf,
yet she knew almost nothing about him. Brodie knew everything about everyone on board, yet her frosty exterior automatically meant she kept people at a distance.

She entered sickbay and found about half a dozen men there. Most had already been treated, and a few were ready to return to duty. The majority of injuries were minor lacerations, a couple of broken bones, and one man with minor electrical burns to a hand.

“Are you injured, Lieutenant?” Reed asked as he glanced up from a laceration he was sewing closed.

“No,” she replied. “I wanted to check on Martinez and….” She glanced over at a table and saw the bulk of Chief Miller’s body lying on it. A sheet covered his head and most of his body, but his lower legs and shoes were still visible. Then she saw a body bag lying on the deck.

“Doc says I’m okay, Miss,” Martinez told her from where he was lying in a bunk. There were several cuts on his face and head that had already been sutured. “He said I’m lucky I’ve got a hard head.”

Kristen hardly heard him as her eyes focused on the body bag. She swallowed the grief still threatening to overwhelm her, and stepped over to Martinez’s bunk to visit with him for a moment while trying not to think of Gibbs or Miller any longer. Kristen finished visiting with Martinez and left him with, “You just take it easy, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She then walked over to a cabinet and silently removed a second sheet. While the others watched in silence, she completed covering Miller up.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Reed offered. “There was nothing we could do.”

Kristen said no more. Instead, she just nodded solemnly.

“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” Reed repeated.

Kristen paused, knowing Reed was probably feeling guilty, too. She looked at him, knowing it wasn’t his fault. “Me too, Doc,” she admitted. “Me, too.”

Then came the hard part; she turned and knelt down beside the body bag. She steeled her nerves, knowing that Gibbs’ body wouldn’t be pretty. The images would be seared into her psyche forever if she opened the bag, but her friend deserved no less. With the others watching, she unzipped the bag to look upon him a final time. High-pressure steam burns weren’t pretty to look at. She tensed her stomach to swallow a bitter cry as she looked upon Gibbs’ horribly burned face.

“He didn’t suffer long, ma’am,” Reed offered, as if that might lessen her pain.

Kristen didn’t respond; instead, she silently zipped the bag closed and walked out.

K-955 Borei

C
aptain Ahadi was in the tiny wardroom looking over the latest reports on crew efficiency. They’d come a long way since he and his men had come on board, and he was growing more confident in his crew’s ability. Soon, they would be able to take over from their Russian counterparts permanently, and it couldn’t happen soon enough for Ahadi.

“Your tracking parties are still too slow,” Captain Zuyev said bluntly as smoke rose from the cigarette in his hand. “They need more battle drills.”

Ahadi knew his men still needed more training and didn’t like Zuyev pointing it out. But he nodded, knowing that if the Americans forced their way through the Strait of Hormuz, then he and his men would get plenty of real-world experience. He was, of course, aware of the Iranian seizure of the Musandam Peninsula, and he fully supported it. His only regret was that his orders precluded him participating in the struggle. Whereas the rest of the Islamic Republic’s naval forces were guarding the Strait and the vital supply lane between Iran and the troops on the Peninsula, the
Borei’s
orders were to hide in the Gulf to serve as a deterrent against any attempt by the Zionist powers to break through the cordon guarding the Strait.

It was hardly the kind of action Ahadi craved, but he quietly admitted to himself that his men needed more time before they would be ready. He considered his friends who served on the rest of Iran’s submarines, and knew they were all involved in patrolling the approaches to the Strait. If there was going to be a fight, that was where it would start. That was, of course, if the Americans had the stomach for it. He had been overjoyed when he’d received his current command, but a part of him couldn’t help being a bit envious of his fellow naval officers holding the line against the Western powers threatening to force their way into the Persian Gulf. The shallow water in the Gulf was perfect for Iran’s small fleet, and the massive minefield the Republic had seeded in the Strait of Hormuz appeared to guarantee the Persian Gulf was now an Iranian lake.

There was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” he called out.

The door opened, and his communications officer entered. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Captain,” he apologized as he handed over a message.

Ahadi took the message and saw that it was classified at the highest level. He noticed the look of shock on the communication officer’s face. “What?” he asked as he looked down at the message and read. The reason for the young officer’s stunned expression became evident almost immediately.

“What has happened?” Zuyev asked, apparently seeing Ahadi’s look of disbelief.

“There’s been a battle in the Gulf of Oman,” Ahadi said in disbelief as he continued reading.

“And?” Zuyev asked pointedly.

“One of our frigates and all three of our
Kilo
submarines have been lost. Operations are underway to rescue survivors.” Ahadi could recall the names and faces of dozens of officers on the three lost submarines. “Allah, be merciful…”

“What about the Russian submarines guarding the Strait?” Zuyev demanded. It was no secret the Russians had promised to help Iran defend their territorial waters, which now included the entire Strait of Hormuz. “Does it say anything about who attacked?”

“It only says the attackers were beaten back after suffering grievous losses. At least five of their submarines are reported destroyed.” From Ahadi’s perspective, it was a pyrrhic victory at best. With the three
Kilo
submarines lost, the only real submarines the Islamic Republic had left were the
Borei
and
Gagarin
.

“Anything else?” Zuyev asked, anxious for information about the Russian forces guarding the Strait.

“I’m afraid it says nothing about your fleet,” Ahadi admitted.

The two captains sat quietly for a few moments, considering just what the message meant. Ahadi wasn’t naïve enough to believe everything his superiors reported, but even if they’d sunk two or three American submarines it would be a tremendous victory, despite the terrible losses.

“What are our orders?” Zuyev asked, wondering if the
Borei
and her two escorts would be sent to reinforce the remaining naval assets guarding the Strait.

“The
Gagarin
is heading to the Strait with orders to lie in wait for any enemy vessel that might sneak through the barrier,” Ahadi explained, knowing the stealthy
Gagarin
was perfect for such a mission. “We are to stay hidden.” Ahadi wished his orders allowed him to return to the Strait and help get some revenge for his lost comrades. But the mission of the
Borei
wasn’t combat; they were still just a ruse. He then considered the Russian
Akula
submarine that was still shadowing the
Borei,
protecting her as the green crew of Iranians honed their skills.

“We must redouble our efforts to get your crew ready,” Zuyev advised. Both captains knew the
Borei’s
crew wasn’t ready for a real fight yet.

Zuyev was called away to the radio room. Now alone, Ahadi sat quietly scribbling a new training schedule that would push his men as hard as he dared. Zuyev returned thirty minutes later holding his own radio message and looking solemn. “What is it?” Ahadi asked.

Zuyev sat back down and explained, “My superiors also report a serious battle outside the Strait. One of our submarines was lost,” he said gravely.

“Was it the Americans?” Ahadi asked.

Zuyev shrugged. “We can’t be certain, but it seems likely. The Americans have refused to recognize your new territorial waters and said they would enter the Persian Gulf.”