Ryan clambered up, heading aft from the enlisted men’s mess and searching for the way out. Torpedo tube? Waste-disposal chamber? Swim for the hull breech itself? What other ways could there be for a man to escape a sinking submarine? Ryan knew from the tiny digital gauge on top of the tank he could count on an hour of oxygen, but that was under normal circumstances, and there was nothing normal about what he was trying to do.
That’s when he spotted Brosnan’s frightened face peering out at him from the rounded corner of a bulkhead. Ryan almost didn’t recognize the younger man—all he could see were Brosnan’s eyes, looking back at his own, gazing from behind a clear three-inch slit in a protective hood that completely enveloped the man’s head.
Brosnan glanced down at the blade clenched in Ryan’s hand.
“Cawdor,” he said in greeting, his voice muffled by the hood.
“Brosnan,” Ryan replied levelly.
“I’m not armed,” the hooded man said, raising up his open palms to show empty hands.
“I am,” Ryan responded.
“I’ve no feud with you. There’s still time for both of us to get out if we work together.”
Brosnan was stripped down to a white T-shirt covered in grease. There were scorch marks on his clothing. Ryan could see evidence of a nasty burn beginning to fester on the man’s left forearm. The blister was already quite large and red.
“What happened to you?”
“Fire in the control room. Everything up there went to hell when the reactor went out.”
“Where’s the rest of the crew?”
“We were on a skeleton watch. There were only three of us actually piloting the Raleigh. I was the only one who got out. There are more of the enlisted men scattered throughout the sub. Many of them are probably trapped in the lower half, where you were.”
“If they weren’t already chilled, they soon will be. I sealed the compartments as I came through,” Ryan replied.
“So what do you say?” Brosnan asked. “You want to live?”
“I’m listening,” Ryan said. “What’s your idea?”
Brosnan took a deep breath. “The escape trunk. It’s equipped with a two-man airlock and twin hatches, one high and one low. Either one is capable of withstanding as much pressure as the hull of the submarine. It would normally be used to load cargo and supplies, but in predark days, it was also a secret access for special-ops teams like Navy SEAL commando squads. Deep-dive teams could enter and exit without anyone becoming the wiser.”
“I get you. In our case, we can go the emergency route.”
“Right. What do you say?”
“I say lead the way,” Ryan said, gesturing with the knife.
Brosnan squeezed past Ryan in the cramped passageway and made his way to a small access ladder. As the man climbed up, Ryan’s curiosity got the better of him. He could see where the protective garb was strapped down tight to the front and back of the man’s upper torso with a thick nylon belt.
“What’s the deal with the hood? You expecting another fire?”
“It’s a Steinke hood, a combination life jacket and breathing apparatus,” Brosnan replied as he twisted open the first access hatch into the escape trunk. The wheel turned slowly, with a series of rusty squeaks. Brosnan raised his voice to be heard. “I can charge the air reservoir from an air port in the side of the escape trunk.”
As the smaller man disappeared into the trunk, Ryan slid the blade into his belt. He would need both hands free to assist. The one-eyed man followed Brosnan up the ladder.
When Ryan pulled himself into the small room, he felt himself lose the slight stoop he’d been walking with since coming aboard the submarine. The escape trunk wasn’t wide, but it was tall.
“There will be an air bubble created under the flanges in the corners where we can stand while the trunk floods,” Brosnan said as he closed the hatch in the deck. “There should be extra hoods in the wall compartment over there if you want one, but with the rig you’re wearing, I don’t guess you’ll need it.”
Ryan eyed the hooded gear that Brosnan was hooking up to a valve in the wall.