He bolts to his feet. The crew in the mess hall falls silent and all eyes shift to the uprighted skipper. His intuition is somewhat legendary amongst the seafaring men and has miraculously survived perilous situations time and time again. He suddenly knew that this submarine would prove his match.

He slowly turns, meeting the eyes of the young men who were moments ago discussing women, cars and baseball. His voice cracks for a split second before uttering “it’s too late”.

Silence, a cough. Then, as if perfectly cued in from down the hall, a thunderous rush of air sends forks, posters, hats, plates and bodies flying. Someone screams. The heat is intense but pales in comparison to the temperature of the nuclear fireball roaring from the engine room. Death grips the submarine and crushes the souls inhabiting it in fractions of a second. The hull is quickly shredded with a metallic groan and water, the final reprieve, evicts the air skyward. Silence befalls the scene as the mangled corpse falls into the abyss.