rate of descent increasing fast. This far down even Voortrekker's ceramic hull compressed, reducing their buoyancy further.
"Captain," Van Gelder said, "our momentum's much too high. Recommend emergency main ballast blow while we still have the chance."
"That was a three-KT warhead out there," ter Horst said, "if not more."
"I know, sir. But we're too heavy now with the heat and gas bubbles around us." The ocean's supporting density had just dropped out from under them. "Our crush depth's coming up fast!"
"Surfaced into those tsunamis, we could turn turtle
easily," ter Horst said, "spill air from the bottom of the ballast tanks and sink, even do a full three-sixty, smashing everyone and everything inside."
Van Gelder nodded. Which was the better way to die?
"Engineering," ter Horst said into the bulky mouthpiece, "status on the diveplanes? Can you shunt past the bad main motor breakers?" He paused for the response. "They need more time."
"Captain!" Van Gelder urged as he watched the depth gauge. "We've got barely sixty seconds till the hull implodes!"
"Very well," ter Horst said, sighing, "it's the lesser of two evils. . . . Diving Officer, emergency-blow the forward main ballast group."
High-pressure air screeched like a strident harpy, forcing its way into the tanks outside the pressure hull. Enough leaked through the distribution manifold to pop Van Gelder's ears.
"Number One," ter Horst told him, "lay forward and steady the damage control parties. See to that fan room fire."
As Van Gelder stood up awkwardly, the control room began to fill with wispy smoke. He ordered the crewmen into respirators. Some cursed in pain as they put masks to bruised and bloodied faces, then aided unconscious or stunned neighbors who flopped sideways strapped into their chairs. Van Gelder reached for a walk-around breather set stowed under his console.
"We're still going down," ter Horst said. "Diving Officer, give the forward ballast tanks more air."
"Sir," the senior chief said, coughing, "it'll expand too much as we go up and we'll lose bubbles through the bottom vents. They'll make a datum topside."
"Christ, man, that doesn't matter now!"
Van Gelder staggered as an aftershock hit. The deck tilted even further in spite of the bow tank blow. He
reached out desperately to avoid a long fall down the forward passageway. He grabbed a stanchion on the overhead and lunged to safety, dropping his air pack on the way. He wound up pinned by gravity beside the diving officer and helmsman. He heard his respirator crash against a transverse bulkhead somewhere forward. That could have been my skull, he told himself, then wondered how the fire fighters were making out.
"Emergency-blow stern ballast tanks," ter Horst said. "Use all the air you've got." Van Gelder's ears hurt more, but nothing happened.
"Dammit," ter Horst said, "it's not enough. Fire the hydrazine gas generators." Van Gelder knew the onetime-use chemical cartridges were a last resort. He heard them igniting in the ballast tanks, like missile engines on a hot run in the vertical launching system.
The boat shuddered, then seemed to stop and think about it, still with a frightening downbubble. The helmsman shouted that the sternplanes had been freed. He put them on full rise but then they jammed again. Voortrekker started coming up. The helmsman called out their depth every hundred meters, then every two hundred as the boat kept on accelerating, driven now by massive and increasing positive buoyancy.
"Sonar," Van Gelder said automatically, holding on for dear life, "any surface contacts?" The sonar chief gestured helplessly. "Sir, it's impossible out there." His voice sounded distant, muffled through his breather mask.
"Collision alarm!" ter Horst said into the sound-powered phone. "Talkers relay to all hands: Emergency surface, stand by to broach. Rig for fallout, do not open air induction valves, do not man the bridge."
Van Gelder eyed the speed log. The boat moved in
"Captain," Van Gelder said, "our momentum's much too high. Recommend emergency main ballast blow while we still have the chance."
"That was a three-KT warhead out there," ter Horst said, "if not more."
"I know, sir. But we're too heavy now with the heat and gas bubbles around us." The ocean's supporting density had just dropped out from under them. "Our crush depth's coming up fast!"
"Surfaced into those tsunamis, we could turn turtle
easily," ter Horst said, "spill air from the bottom of the ballast tanks and sink, even do a full three-sixty, smashing everyone and everything inside."
Van Gelder nodded. Which was the better way to die?
"Engineering," ter Horst said into the bulky mouthpiece, "status on the diveplanes? Can you shunt past the bad main motor breakers?" He paused for the response. "They need more time."
"Captain!" Van Gelder urged as he watched the depth gauge. "We've got barely sixty seconds till the hull implodes!"
"Very well," ter Horst said, sighing, "it's the lesser of two evils. . . . Diving Officer, emergency-blow the forward main ballast group."
High-pressure air screeched like a strident harpy, forcing its way into the tanks outside the pressure hull. Enough leaked through the distribution manifold to pop Van Gelder's ears.
"Number One," ter Horst told him, "lay forward and steady the damage control parties. See to that fan room fire."
As Van Gelder stood up awkwardly, the control room began to fill with wispy smoke. He ordered the crewmen into respirators. Some cursed in pain as they put masks to bruised and bloodied faces, then aided unconscious or stunned neighbors who flopped sideways strapped into their chairs. Van Gelder reached for a walk-around breather set stowed under his console.
"We're still going down," ter Horst said. "Diving Officer, give the forward ballast tanks more air."
"Sir," the senior chief said, coughing, "it'll expand too much as we go up and we'll lose bubbles through the bottom vents. They'll make a datum topside."
"Christ, man, that doesn't matter now!"
Van Gelder staggered as an aftershock hit. The deck tilted even further in spite of the bow tank blow. He
reached out desperately to avoid a long fall down the forward passageway. He grabbed a stanchion on the overhead and lunged to safety, dropping his air pack on the way. He wound up pinned by gravity beside the diving officer and helmsman. He heard his respirator crash against a transverse bulkhead somewhere forward. That could have been my skull, he told himself, then wondered how the fire fighters were making out.
"Emergency-blow stern ballast tanks," ter Horst said. "Use all the air you've got." Van Gelder's ears hurt more, but nothing happened.
"Dammit," ter Horst said, "it's not enough. Fire the hydrazine gas generators." Van Gelder knew the onetime-use chemical cartridges were a last resort. He heard them igniting in the ballast tanks, like missile engines on a hot run in the vertical launching system.
The boat shuddered, then seemed to stop and think about it, still with a frightening downbubble. The helmsman shouted that the sternplanes had been freed. He put them on full rise but then they jammed again. Voortrekker started coming up. The helmsman called out their depth every hundred meters, then every two hundred as the boat kept on accelerating, driven now by massive and increasing positive buoyancy.
"Sonar," Van Gelder said automatically, holding on for dear life, "any surface contacts?" The sonar chief gestured helplessly. "Sir, it's impossible out there." His voice sounded distant, muffled through his breather mask.
"Collision alarm!" ter Horst said into the sound-powered phone. "Talkers relay to all hands: Emergency surface, stand by to broach. Rig for fallout, do not open air induction valves, do not man the bridge."
Van Gelder eyed the speed log. The boat moved in
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