Leviathan. Joaquin De Torres

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      The bridge pitched down sharply. Everyone braced against their consoles as the sub dove, narrowly escaping the hulking mass swinging over them like a giant crane.

      “Great move, Captain!”

      “Secure collision alarm. What’s our depth?” The clanging alarm ceased.

      “Approaching 2,000 feet,” answered Lesher. “Getting close to test depth.”

      “You’re right, Roy. Level out at 2,000 and reassess our position.”

      “Leveling out, Captain. Two thousand feet depth,” reported Lesher who was standing over Price.

      “Miss Evans, where is that monster?”

      “It’s. . .it’s. . .” Evans’ mouth hung open in disbelief, unable to answer. Lesher saw her momentary paralysis and moved quickly to her and looked at her monitor.

      “It’s in front of us, Captain. Thirty degrees starboard at 1,300 meters.” He turned to Frost. “It’s coming right at us!”

      “Jesus! That fast!?” said a voice behind Frost. But she didn’t hear it.

      “Sound general quarters.”

      “Sounding general quarters!” The repetitive drone of the alarm filled the speakers throughout the sub as every sailor hurried to their assigned emergency battle station.

      “What’s her speed?”

      “Twenty-five knots!”

      “Let’s get closer to the surface so we can send a message to SUBPAC. Increase speed to 25 knots. Take us up. Thirty degrees up angle.”

      “Increase speed to 25 knots. Bow planes 30 degrees up angle,” repeated Lesher. The room now rotated upward in a 30-degree angle, and the crew’s voices again throttled with adrenaline and nervousness. All, except Captain Frost’s, who maintained her controlled demeanor.

      “Bogey at 1000 meters!”

      “Mister Bingham, flood forward torpedo tubes.”

      “Yes, ma’am!”

      “Mister Avila, prepare a message for SUBPAC on our contact with the bogey. Coordinates and time of contact, et cetera. You know what to do.”

      “Yes, ma’am!” answered Lieutenant Avila, the ship’s COMMS officer.

      “What’s our depth?”

      “One thousand seven hundred feet!”

      “Bogey now at 500 meters, Ma’am!”

      “All tubes flooded, Captain!”

      “Open torpedo bay doors, Mister Bingham.”

      “Doors opening!”

      “We’re at 1,500 feet, Captain!”

      “Bogey at 350 meters!”

      “Prepare countermeasures, full spread.”

      “Countermeasures ready, Captain!”

      “Have they opened their doors?”

      “No, ma’am!”

      “IT’S GOING TO RAM US!” shouted Evans.

      “Calm down, Miss Evans,” calmed Frost. “I need your focus now.” She looked at Lesher and nodded her head.

      “Sound collision alarm.” Lesher hit the button, sending the Claxton staccato through the sub’s speakers again. The sound further unnerved the crew who hadn’t heard both alarms together since their initial training days.

      “Increase speed to flank.”

      “OH MY GOD!”

      “Shut up, Rita!” Lesher snapped harshly at Evans. He pulled the mike to his mouth, still glaring at the young ensign on her first cruise.

      “Increase speed to flank!” he resumed. No one could tell, but Lesher’s professional calm was beginning to unhinge itself with every frightened utterance of the crew. He looked nervously at Frost. Her expression was as placid and concentrative as if she were playing chess. She studied the several screens adjacent to the IMAX from her captain’s chair, calculating their information with her rapidly-moving blue eyes. While everyone’s voice rose, shook or gasped, she showed no desperation in hers. Her orders and comments were voiced as quietly and confidently as if she were giving marriage counseling. This was something Lesher had always loved about her.

      “Mister Bingham, arm your torpedoes manually. We may have to shoot at pointblank range.”

      “Arming torpedoes, Captain!” Bingham’s fingers tapped the weapons control keyboard desperately.

      “How’s your message going, Mister Avila?”

      “I’m good, ma’am! Just need a couple more hundred feet before I send her.”

      “What’s our depth?”

      “We’re at 1,200, Captain!”

      “Very well.”

      “All four torpedoes armed and ready to shoot, ma’am.”

      “Very well.”

      As if sensing his nervousness, Frost turned to Lesher and gave him an encouraging nod with the slightest hint of a smile. This brought him back, fueling his adrenaline with a renewed sense of courage. He nodded and mouthed “Thank you.”

      “Bogey now at 250 meters!”

      Lesher leaned back to Frost.

      “It’s going to be close, Sandy,” he whispered.

      “I know, Roy.”

      “LOOK AT THE SCREEN!” shrieked Petty Officer Lowe, sitting at another sonar position. Lesher nimbly jumped next to Evans and covered her mouth with his hand to prevent her scream. It was he who spoke, and he spoke loud enough to cause everyone to momentarily freeze.

      “Oh my God, Sandy! What is that!?”

      All heads turned up to the IMAX. The view of the ocean was still dark, but less murky as they catapulted towards the surface. The water was now a lighter shade of green and schools of fish and individual species were discernable. But in that clarity was another image in the distance.

      The nose of the other submarine emerged out of the deep blue just 150 meters away, coming towards them from a 35-degree angle on the starboard side. Its nose was not conical or traditionally bulbous, but tapered down to an opened-mouthed scoop like the maw of a gargantuan sea bass. The mouth was hinged, able to swing down. The lips of the mouth were of reinforced steel, thick and hideously scarred as if used as a battering СКАЧАТЬ