In which the submarine's plight is made clear, and a rescue is planned...
Predictably, things had gotten sort of crazy in room 276. The Canadian girls were in high spirits; one game away from gold. They were exuberant, to say the least, and tall. Very tall.
Meanwhile, Erik's latest care package contained several parcels of lutefisk, a sort of lye-drenched... jellied cod... snack. Which, ghastly though it was, still smelt better than surstromming. He actually got some takers for this one, including TinTin. .. (Erik's Scandinavian good looks may have had something to do with her sudden courage) ... but nobody went back for seconds. The evening ended when McMahon came stomping in shouting at the top of his lungs about competitions and the need for sleep. In a matter of minutes he'd thrown out the basketball players, the visitors, and especially, the fish.
"...That was nothing," Gordon admitted, as he walked Alan and TinTin out to the gate, later that night. "Back in Madrid, Erik's mum sent him a bit of comfort from home that included more food. He was pullin' it out of the package, when I noticed the cans had got all swollen. I told him I thought his tuna'd gone off a bit... cans aren't supposed t' breathe, no matter what he says... So he started arguin' with me an' put it down at the table. It exploded. The whole can, all over the room, like it was designed by the Swedish defense department, or something. No joke, they had to evacuate the dorm."
Alan laughed. "Holy cow! How did WNN's Olympic coverage miss that one? I can see the headlines now: Olympic training facility bombed! Athletes forced to flee foul fish!"
TinTin listened quietly, tightening the arm she'd placed about each of the boys' waists. She'd missed them despite herself, learning deportment and etiquette in lonely Paris. No one spoke her variety of French there, for one thing... and no one seemed to have time for a mere servant's daughter, no matter how pretty, or smart.
She wanted to go home. More, she wanted the boys home, too. Let them tease and pester ever so much. At least they cared. TinTin sighed, and forced herself to smile. If only her European education hadn't been a gift from Mr. Tracy...
Gordon saw them off at the security gate, giving a Alan a quick, rough embrace, and kissing TinTin's cheek. They'd get together again after the closing ceremonies, and this time, he promised, there'd be no weird fish.
He was halfway back to Block 17 when his wrist comm went off. Someone seized his arm before he could make a move to answer it, though, whipping him suddenly into the relative darkness of a side street.
"One of these days, Kid, it's gonna be for real," came a gruff, familiar voice, "and you're gonna end up trying to kick yourself while drowning in your own blood, all because you didn't pay attention."
Gordon pulled away from the man's grip, saying testily,
"I wasn't expectin' hostilities, Murphy. The Village is guarded."
The Seal snorted, more scornful than amused. "Yeah. They think they've got security. Kinda cute, actually." He was a hard-faced man, wiry and strong, but unexceptional to look at. Without the black makeup and dark clothing, Murphy might have blended in well at a used car lot, or a high school athletic department.
"But I'm not here to insult the local rent-a-cops, or to pay social calls, either. I need help. Umm.., this is 'off-' off the record, understood?"
Gordon nodded silently. He and Murphy had first run into each other in Macedonia, where he'd come to appreciate the US Navy Seals' special brand of mayhem. Murphy went on: "We've got a sub down somewhere in the Chukchi Sea. The Navy's trying to find her, on the quiet. She was out there on her first sea trials... without, uh..., official status. Know what I mean? Anyway, um..., it's gonna take the brass awhile to locate and raise her, without letting the rest of the world in on the secret. Maybe too long. Those guys haven't got a lifetime supply of air, and God knows how deep they've gone. I'll... I'll be straight with you, Kid. I've got a personal stake in this." Murphy's grey eyes became troubled, suddenly, his voice growing quieter as he added, "My brother-in-law's on that boat. My sister thinks he's over in Pearl, at a desk. I'd be... much obliged if you rescue guys could see that she goes on thinking that." And then, spreading his hands slightly, "I don't know where else to turn."
Murphy had been instrumental in saving Virgil and Scott from the Hood, that time in Macedonia, and Gordon had no intention of letting him down, now. Saying,
"You're on, Murphy. We've got this," he tapped the wrist comm to John.
Earlier that day, below the surface, somewhere far north...
Despite all he could do, Hammerhead was sinking. Captain Craig had gotten a swift head count. All at the Conn Station were safe and relatively well, with injuries limited to sprains and bruises, and one minor electrical burn. The galley had called in, their news not as good. Five men alive down there, two of them seriously injured. Habitation wasn't responding, but he'd heard from the wardroom, attack center, sonar, maneuvering, communications and engineering. Altogether, 98 out of 118 men accounted for. Now to get them home.
In the dim, flickery light of the Conn Station, every face was turned to his. All calm, all prepared to take whatever risks were required to save themselves, and their boat. 'Best crew in the fleet,' he thought, proudly, and began issuing commands.
"Mr. Morrisey, I need distance and course to the nearest stretch of continental shelf. As we appear to be headed for bottom, let's make it as shallow and close to shore as possible."
"Course to shelf, Sir. Aye!" The younger man immediately turned to the navigator, huddling with the lad over a fitful, half-powered computer screen.
"Engineering," Craig called out, reaching for a dangling mike, "how much have we got, and how long can you give it to me?"
Lt. Commander Powers came back over the crackling microphone, "She's shaken up, but still glowing, Sir. Water level's under control and the wiring's patched up. One half power with confidence, Sir, full at a pinch, but not for long. Too much stress to the hull. As for time... she'll run until she touches bottom, Sir."
"Very good, Mr. Powers. Keep her lit, and we'll handle the rest."
"Aye, Sir."
To the communications officer, he said,
"Comm, fire a distress buoy. Coded message giving our status and location. Do not name the boat, or directly request Naval or Coast Guard assistance. Just get the word out."
The comm officer nodded, and got to work. "Aye, Sir. Coding distress signal."
To the Maneuvering Room, he said, "Maneuvering, Conn; how's she answering the helm?"
A young seaman's voice came back, a little uncertainly, "Sir, we've got rudder and planes, still. A little sluggish 'cause of the weight and the hole, but she's answering." Sam Battles, it was; a teenager from Detroit who'd gotten his dolphins pinned on just eight months before. He'd taken over the maneuvering room after Lt. Conroy was shocked unconscious, then rewired the helm single-handedly, bringing steering back on line.
"Very good, Maneuvering Room."
The pumps, he knew, were still working, pushing water out of the boat almost as fast as it was coming in. They were going down. That was a given, but he still had some control over where, and how fast, and that, with the buoy, might just be enough to save them.
At the Olympic Village:
"US Navy, huh?" John mused aloud. "That explains a lot." Then, to his younger brother's transmitted image, "I've already notified Scott and Virgil. Thunderbird 2 is on her way, with pod 4 loaded up. She'll pick you up on Mt. Hood, Longitude 121.82 degrees north, Latitude 45.55 degrees west, in... thirty minutes. You shouldn't have to enter the water yourself, but get into your suit anyway, just in case."
Gordon nodded in reply, adding, "Alan and TinTin are knockin' about Portland; come t' see a few events. Bring 'em along, you think?"
John considered a moment. Alan, at fourteen and a half, was the youngest of his brothers. Fifteen-year-old TinTin didn't even have a pilot's license, though she'd been out on a few missions. He hated to put the kids at risk, but had a gut feeling that Virgil and Gordon were going to need help. So...,
"Yeah. Call them up and have them make ready. And proceed with extreme caution, Gordon. I'm serious. Military security's involved here, which is never a good thing for us. I haven't got any schematics on the sub, even. This is major black ops. Be ready for anything."
"F.A.B., John. We'll be careful." Tapping off the comm, Gordon turned to face Murphy, still lurking like a serpent in a darker bit of shadow. "Can I con a lift t' Mount Hood?"