The Andaman Sea

3:02 p.m.

Wearing his wash khaki uniform and a navy blue ball cap with the emblem of his submarine and the initials “CO” stitched in gold on the front, Commander Graham Hardison walked across the control room and put his hand on the shoulder of the enlisted man who was seated at a control panel just in front of the skipper’s seat.

“Got any more of that black stuff, Mr. COB?” Mr. COB was the acronym that submariners often used to refer to the chief of the boat, usually the senior enlisted man on board a US Navy submarine. In this case, the COB was Radioman Senior Chief Fred Gimler, a tall, balding South Dakotan who was approaching thirty years in the submarine service.

“Yessir, Captain,” the COB said. “Just brought a pot up from the galley.” Gimler turned around with a knowing grin.

“I thought I saw you tiptoeing onto my bridge with steaming contraband in hand,” Hardison joked.

“Guilty as charged, Captain.” The COB twisted the plastic top off the insulated thermos. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the control room, and Commander Hardison felt a jolt to his senses just from the scent of it. “Your mug, sir?”

Hardison held his white, porcelain coffee mug, with coffee acid rings circling the bottom-a badge of honor among submariners-out to the chief. “Mug looks a little clean, sir.” The COB grinned as steaming, black, battery-acid strength coffee oozed into the skipper’s mug.

“Maybe in my next life, I’ll come back as a navy chief, Mr. COB,” Hardison joked. “That way, I’ll always make sure there’s something growing in the bottom of my mug.”

“Trust me, Skipper, the pay’s better in your seat,” the COB chuckled.

Hardison laughed. “Thanks for reminding me, Chief.” He took a refreshing sip of the strong stuff. The kick was immediate. “Ahh. Good stuff.”

Hardison returned to the captain’s chair. “XO, report our updated position, please.”

“Aye, Captain,” the executive officer said. “Currently eighty-three miles east of Nicobar Island. Speed ten knots,” the XO said. “Course zero-nine-zero degrees.”

“Very well,” Hardison said. “Steady as she goes.”

“Steady as she goes. Aye, Captain.”

“Conn. Radio.” The radio officer’s voice blared over the intercom.

“Radio. Conn. Whatcha got?”

“Sir, we’ve got an all-frequency distress call from USS Ingraham.”

“The Ingraham?” Dear Lord. The Ingraham was one of the US Navy frigates assigned to tanker escort duty in the Malaccan Strait. “Don’t tell me another terrorist attack.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

Hardison sloshed his coffee. “What is the position of the Ingraham?”

“The Ingraham is not under attack. She’s relaying a distress call for the tanker Altair Voyager. The tanker’s on fire in the Andaman Sea, near the western entrance to the Strait of Malacca. She’s taking on water. They’ve abandoned ship. Two choppers from the Ingraham are in the area, but rescue efforts are being hampered by a smoke cloud. They need assistance on the surface, sir.”

Hardison stood. Adrenaline was starting to kick in.

“Navigator. Plot a course to Altair Voyager. Advise on ETA at full power.”

“Aye, Captain.” The navigator punched the coordinates into the sub’s navigational computer. “Estimated time of arrival at full power…twenty-two minutes, Captain.”

“Very well. Radio. Contact Seventh Fleet. Mark it. USS Boise requests permission to surface to assist USS Ingraham in rescue efforts of tanker Altair Voyager.”

The Andaman Sea

3:14 p.m.

Captain Eichenbrenner lay back in the warm sea water, trying to stay afloat.

Where was his crew? Perhaps they were swimming aft, trying to get out from under the thickening black smoke.

“Skipper! Over here!”

Eichenbrenner pulled his arms through the salt water and saw two of his men clinging to a single donut flotation device.

The flotation rings were designed to hold one man, not two. “I’m okay!” he shouted. “You men keep that ring. I’ll be fine.”

“Skipper. You better get over here!”

The men kept motioning for him to swim in their direction. “Hurry, Skipper!”

Instinct took over. If he didn’t get away from the ship, he’d be sucked under when it went down. He started swimming in the direction of their voices.

“Swim away from the ship in the direction of the ship’s aft! Repeat, this is the United States Navy!”

He pushed his arms through water and pulled down, beginning a backstroke. The sky blackened by the minute. If the cloud came much lower, it would cut off their oxygen.

“Hurry, Skipper!”

He pulled his hands through the water, then pushed water down from over his head to his sides.

“Over here, Skipper!”

A hand snatched his forearm, pulling him under. He popped up and found himself with two of his crew members, Seamen Tommy Grimes and Dennis Basnight. Each hung on the life ring.

“It won’t hold us all, Skipper,” Basnight said, blowing sea water from his nose, “but it helps. Just kick a little. Maybe we can hang on long enough to get out from under this smoke so the chopper can throw us a line.”

Eichenbrenner looked around. They were about fifty yards from the burning, smoking relic of the Altair Voyager. “Forget the smoke!” he said. “We’ve got to get away from the ship or we’ll get sucked down with it. Where are the men? Did they swim aft?”

Basnight bobbed under the water, then bobbed back up. “The situation isn’t good, Skipper.”

“No kidding!”

“No, Skipper. I mean with the men. It’s not good.”

“Skipper! Behind you! Watch out!” Grimes said.

Eichenbrenner looked over his left shoulder.

A dark gray triangular fin cut through the water in a flash. It disappeared. Eichenbrenner groaned.

“Another one!” Basnight said. “Opposite direction! Get your legs up!”

This one was swimming from their right. Eichenbrenner pulled his knees to his chest as the shark bore down on them.

Twenty feet…

Fifteen feet…

Ten feet…

The fin vanished.

“Where’d it go?” blurted Basnight.

“Maybe it’s gone,” Grimes said.

A moment passed.

Something slammed their legs. The jolt knocked the three men away from the life ring.

Eichenbrenner went under and came back up splashing, gasping for air. Grimes and Basnight flailed in the water nearby.

The life ring drifted off to the left, maybe ten feet away. Eichenbrenner started a breast stroke toward it.

“Watch out!”

The fin surfaced again, about fifteen feet to his right. It made quick, violent circles in the water, then disappeared.

Eichenbrenner swam and instinctively prayed that he would reach the ring without being bitten in half.

A few seconds later, his hand reached the flotation device.

The shark resurfaced, maybe twenty-five feet away. It set a course directly for him. Angry white teeth like glistening sharp razors bore straight at him. Its black eyes blazed fury. It swirled in the water, then slowly started a death swim in his direction.

“Dear Jesus!”

Suddenly, the shark jumped. It splashed down to his right, spraying sea water in his face. Eichenbrenner grasped the life ring and looked around.

Gone again. The shark was toying with him before the kill.

“Skipper!” Basnight yelled from about twenty feet away. He and Grimes were floating close to each other. Hooking the raft in one arm, the captain paddled toward them.

“You okay, Skipper?” Grimes asked.

“Fine,” Eichenbrenner lied. Panting and breathless, he pushed the donut toward the men.

“Sir, they got several of our crew members already,” Grimes said.

“They?”

“Skipper, four of our guys tried to swim aft. We saw the fins surface, and they disappeared under the water.”

“Who disappeared?”

“The men, Captain,” Basnight said. “The sharks got ’em!” Terror crossed the man’s face. Almost a delayed reaction.