Manifest Destiny

“Captain, we’ve got impacts in the water aft of us,” reported the chief sonarman. “Sonobuoys, sir, and they’re dropping in a pattern leading towards us. No sound of dipping or surface shipping, sir. Not a helicopter, skipper, more than likely an Orion.” “XO to the con.” Hollingsworth called into the intercom. “They’re almost over us sir,” reported the sonarman. “I think they’re going to have us pretty quickly.” “Come to course 085 and take her down to 200 meters,” ordered Hollingsworth. “Reduce speed to five knots. Have we got a thermal layer?” “Yes sir,” said the operator. “Thermal at 125 meters but he’s dropped sonbuoys both above and below the layer.” “We’re up against a good pilot,” Hollingsworth said to himself. The blood spattered executive officer, Dan Meyers stepped through the hatch into the command center. “Captain?” “Dan, we’ve got company,” said the Captain. “There’s an Orion prosecuting us now and it appears they’re going to be right on top of us in a minute or two. I think it’s only a matter of time before they find us. Those guys carry four torpedoes rather than the one aboard the Seahawk and their ASW systems are better. This is about to get interesting.” “What’s the plan, skipper?” “We’ve got to make him think we’re already dead,” said Hollingsworth. “I want you to get the bodies of our two dead seaman, and the corpse of that saboteur, and put them in the diving trunk, along with whatever stuff you can find that isn’t essential and will float. On my command you’re to over-pressurize the diving trunk and pop the hatch.” “Sir, we’re going to jettison the bodies?” “That’s right Dan,” said Hollingsworth. “I don’t like it but we’ve got to give them something they’ll buy.” “More sonobuoys in the water, this time right ahead of us and some are descending deeper,” reported the sonar chief. “They must have had an idea where we were because the ones behind us are passive while these new ones are actively pinging. That last one definitely got us,sir.” “XO, be quick about it,” urged the Captain as he turned to his executive officer. “We’re about to get a torpedo right down our hatch.” As the Captain maneuvered the boat to stay as far away from the sonobuoy pattern as possible, the executive officer and a four man detail began moving the bodies to the diving trunk, a pressurized chamber in the sail normally used to deploy divers or evacuate the crew in the event of an emergency. Each body was carefully placed inside, with a flotation belt strapped to their waist, beneath blue windbreakers. On top of the bodies went several mattresses, flotation jackets and other items that would travel along with the bodies to the surface. “Engine room, this is the captain.” “Engineering, aye, sir.” “I want you to prepare to purge the bilges on my order. And hold on, things are going to get a little bumpy.” “Aye sir, preparing to purge the bilge on your command. Rigging for rough seas, sir.” It proved to be a short wait. “We’ve got two torpedoes in the water sir, aft starboard quarter, angling a steep down trajectory. Distance 3,000 meters, time to impact 45 seconds,” called the sonarman. Nils Hollingsworth knew these waters well. It was a regular exercise area for his boat and crew, offering a unique opportunity for close maneuvering. He was in the Swiftsure trench, a deep canyon that parallels the rugged coast of Vancouver Island, 120 kilometers from shore. Unlike more robust nuclear attack subs, he couldn’t dive down into the trench to evade the torpedoes. Nevertheless, he had a secret that he hoped would save his crew. Hollingsworth pulled a chart from the navigation drawer of the command console. He quickly found the one he wanted, and rapidly computed his course. “Helm, steer 045 degrees, sharp down bubble, all ahead, flank, make your depth 260 meters.” “Steering 045 degrees, sharp down bubble, and making depth 260 meters,” said the helmsman as he pushed his control column sharply forward. “Captain, can I have a confirmation depth 2-6-0 meters, please?” Everyone aboard the board was aware that the ship’s maximum rated depth was 200 meters. Hull crush depth was said to be 250 meters. This order would take the sub racing through that level. “Confirming 260 meters, helm,” replied the captain evenly. “Aye, aye, sir,” repeated the helmsman. “Making my depth 2-6-zero meters.” The bridge was silent as the Victoria descended sharply beyond its crush depth. “Captain,” reported the sonar operator, “torpedoes are now 500 meters dead astern. They’ve gone active and are accelerating. Impact in 20 seconds.” “Sonar, I want you to listen to the torpedo’s sonar returns for a contact that is dead ahead, on the surface of the sea floor. Let me know when you acquire it.” “Aye aye, sir.” The senior sonarman didn’t sound convinced that he’d ever have the chance to hear it…when the distinctive ping came back through his headphones. “Got it sir, target bearing five degrees to starboard, range 400 meters.” “Helm, all ahead flank and on my signal, hard port rudder and reduce speed to dead stop. Prepare to launch countermeasures to starboard.” By now the whine of the approaching air-dropped 13 inch torpedoes could be heard through the boat’s hull. “Torpedoes 150 meters astern and closing, Captain.” “Hard to port now and full rise on the planes!” snapped Hollingsworth. “Deploy decoys to starboard. Come to dead stop after your turn.” The boat veered hard to the left, causing the command center crew to lean sharply in their chairs. Only their aircraft harness seat belts held them in place as they heard the sound of the torpedoes passing harmlessly along the right side length of the hull. “Make your speed two knots. Helm, maintain course 345 degrees and come to 200 meters. Brace for collision!” The blast of the torpedo strike on the sea-floor object tossed Victoria around like a huge bathtub toy. The concussion, coupled with the already severe stress caused by the overpressure on the hull caused rivets to pop and valves to pop open throughout the ship. Hollingsworth picked up the intercom microphone. “XO, prepare to blow diving trunk.” “XO aye, diving trunk pressurized to the maximum, 140 per cent. Preparing to pop on your order, sir.” Hollingsworth cast his eyes to the deck. The ship’s intense rocking had just about ended. “Helm, all stop. Bring the boat to 180 meters and hold steady. Silent running.” Hollingsworth spoke into the intercom. “XO, this is the Captain. Pop the hatch on the diving trunk and release your cargo.” “XO to Captain, aye sir, popping the hatch.” The whoosh from over their heads confirmed for the command center crew that the three bodies and assorted debris had been sent to the surface. “XO, close and secure the hatch once everything is clear. Engine room, purge the ballast tanks.” “Purging ballast tanks now, sir.” “Diving trunk hatch closed and secured, sir. Returning pressure to normal levels.” “Thank you, XO. Please return to the control room.” “Aye, sir.” Two hundred meters above, at the surface of the rough north Pacific, the crew of the Whidbey Island-based four-engine Orion ASW aircraft spotted the first of the bodies and some assorted debris on the surface five minutes later. Their remaining sonobuoys could only pick up the sound of metal compressing and crashing down the wall of the steep trench. The oil slick that soon covered the surface confirmed the death of their target.