Final Option (Oregon Files 14)

Once the Nomad was released from the underside of the Oregon, it took the submersible a half hour to reach the location where the Barosso was station-keeping. Max brought them up from a depth of eight hundred feet, following the contours of the steep slope of the continental shelf.

As they rose, the Nomad’s lights illuminating the way, Juan, Max, and MacD crowded into the polycarbonate nose cockpit, straining for a glimpse of their target. While Max was in shirtsleeves, Juan and MacD were already in drysuits. All they’d need to don before getting in the air lock would be the masks.

The depth gauge read three hundred feet when MacD said, “There she is. Man, she’s a big sucker.”

The Kansas City’s bow was protruding over the lip of a ledge. Juan could make out the port torpedo tube doors.

“At least she went down upright,” Max said. “I don’t see any damage yet.”

“Let’s check her out from stem to stern,” Juan said.

Max put the Nomad in front of the bow and kept rising until they were at the same depth as the KC’s sail—what submariners in old days called the conning tower. He pushed the Nomad forward, and it didn’t take long to see what sank the Kansas City.

A gash thirty feet long had been carved into the starboard side near the bow. From the scrapes on the hull, it looked like the sub had collided with the cliff’s edge.

“Ah’m no expert,” MacD said, “but that is not a good sign that we’ll find survivors.”

“We made it this far,” Juan said, despite his shared pessimism, “we might as well do our due diligence. There doesn’t seem to have been an explosion on this end. Let’s keep going.”

Max piloted the Nomad toward the stern. As they maneuvered around the sail, they could see that it was intact. When they got past it, a large cylinder the size of the Nomad was visible resting on the deck just aft of the sail.

“What in the name of Fat Tuesday is that thing?” MacD asked.

“That’s right,” Juan said. “I keep forgetting you aren’t a Navy man. That’s called a dry deck shelter.” Even though MacD had spent the last few years on the Oregon becoming an expert diver, his military experience was as an Army Ranger.

“The tube holds three compartments,” Max said. “A decompression chamber on the bow end, an air lock in the middle that’s connected to the forward escape trunk, and a hangar for a SEAL Delivery Vehicle in the aft end.”

“Ah get it,” MacD said. “They use it for infiltration missions the way we use the moon pool on the Oregon.”

“Exactly.”

“Then we won’t have easy access to that escape trunk,” Juan said. “Besides, since the only damage we’ve seen so far is in the bow, the stern is the most likely place to find survivors.”

Max pressed on, and they spotted no other hull breaches. What they did see was an avalanche of rocks that had slid from the cliff above and landed on the portion of the hull where the stern escape trunk hatch was located. What had to be a ton was covering it.

“No wonder nobody got out,” Max said.

“We need to find out if anyone is conscious inside,” Juan said. “Apply the contact transceiver.”

They could have used the robotic arm to tap out Morse code on the KC’s hull, but the banging would have been loud enough for the Barosso to hear, alerting the corvette to the Nomad’s presence. Instead, they’d fitted a special device that they could press against the nuclear sub’s hull to communicate with anyone inside by voice, just like pressing an ear to the wall.

Max lowered the transceiver until it touched the Kansas City.

“Go ahead,” Max said.

Juan spoke into the microphone. “Attention, USS Kansas City crew members. Is there anyone in there?”

Nothing but static played through the Nomad’s speakers. Juan repeated the hail.

“You think we’ll be able to hear their voices?” Juan asked Max.

“Never really tried this before, so they may not even be hearing us. The hull does have sound insulation.”

Juan picked up the mic again. “KC crew members, if you can hear this, tap on the outer hatch.”

They waited. Still nothing. Juan tried again. This time, he heard a tap of metal on metal.

It was Morse code. Since MacD wasn’t a Navy vet, Juan interpreted the letters as they came in.