The Swarm (77 page)

‘Sounds good,' said Frost. ‘When will she be ready?'

‘Under normal circumstances it would take six months.'

‘And in these circumstances?'

‘I can't promise anything. Six to eight weeks, if we start right away.' The man looked at him. ‘We'll do everything in our power to have it ready as soon as we can. We're pretty good at that kind of thing. But if we get it done in time, you should see it as a miracle.'

Frost nodded. He looked out over the Atlantic. The blue surface shimmered beneath them. He tried to imagine the water rising up in a six-hundred-metre dome.

‘No problem,' he said. ‘We could do with one.'

Independence, Greenland Sea

Samantha Crowe put down her notes and stared out of the window. The CH-53 Super Stallion was descending rapidly. A strong gust pummelled the heavy-lift helicopter. The thirty-metre craft seemed to be plummeting towards the light-grey surface stationed in the sea. Crowe was astonished that a vessel of such colossal proportions was capable of staying afloat, but at the same time she couldn't help wondering if it was big enough to land on.

Nine hundred and fifty kilometres to the north-east of Iceland, the USS
Independence LHD-8
was sailing over the deep-sea basin of the Arctic Ocean, a floating city in the Greenland Sea. Like the spaceship in
Alien
, its presence seemed dark and foreboding. Two hectares of freedom and 97,000 tonnes of diplomacy - as the US Navy liked to say. The amphibious-assault helicopter-carrier, the largest of its kind in the world, would be her home for the next few weeks. Samantha Crowe, c/o USS
Independence LHD-8
, latitude 75 degrees north, 3500 metres above the ocean floor.

Her mission: to conduct a conversation.

The helicopter banked. The Super Stallion rushed towards the landing point and touched down with a bounce. Through the side-window she saw a man in a yellow shirt directing the helicopter into its bay. One of the crew reached over and unfastened her seat-belt, then helped her out of her lifejacket, goggles, safety helmet and ear-protectors. The flight had been turbulent, and Crowe felt unsteady on her legs. She teetered down the ramp at the rear of the helicopter, crossed beneath the tail of the Super Stallion and looked around.

Only a few helicopters were visible on the flight deck. Her eyes roved over the endless expanse of asphalt, 257.25 metres long, 32.6 metres across, and dotted with bollards. Crowe knew the exact dimensions. She
was a mathematician who loved precision, and she'd found out as much as she could about the
Independence
before she'd set out. At present,, the statistics were dwarfed by reality: the
Independence
was much greater than its technical specifications, schematics and plans. The air smelt strongly of kerosene and oil, mixed with a hint of salt and overheated rubber. A fierce wind swept the combination of odours over the flight deck and tugged at her overalls.

Not the kind of place you'd choose to visit.

Men in brightly coloured shirts and protective headphones ran back and forth. A white shirt headed towards her. Crowe racked her brains. White was the colour for safety personnel. The men in yellow directed the helicopters in to land, and the red shirts were responsible for fuel and ammunition. Weren't there brown shirts too? And maybe purple. What were the brown shirts for?

‘Follow me,' the man bellowed over the noise of the slowing rotor. He gestured towards the superstructure. It rose up on the starboard side of the deck like a high-rise apartment block, crowned with oversized antennae and sensors. Crowe's right hand reached down automatically to her pocket. Then she remembered that her cigarettes were stashed beneath her overalls. She hadn't been able to smoke in the helicopter either. Flying to the Arctic in high winds hadn't bothered her, but holding out without nicotine for hours on end was no laughing matter.

The man opened a hatch and Crowe stepped into the superstructure, or the island, as the sailors called it. Once they'd passed through another door into the interior, they were greeted by a wave of clean air. In Crowe's view, the island looked more like a cave. It was incredibly cramped inside. The white shirt delivered her into the care of a tall black man in uniform, who introduced himself as Major Salomon Peak. As they shook hands, Peak seemed rather formal, as though he had little experience of dealing with civilians. Crowe had spoken to him several times over the past few weeks, but only ever by phone. They strode along a winding corridor and clambered down a series of steep companionways deep into the bowels of the ship. The soldiers followed with her bags. On one of the bulkheads, a sign proclaimed, in big letters, ‘02 LEVEL'.

‘I expect you'll want to freshen up,' said Peak. He opened one among many identical doors lining both sides of the passageway. It led into a surprisingly spacious and pleasantly decorated cabin, more a suite than a
room. Crowe had read somewhere that living space on helicopter-carriers was kept to a minimum and that the troops slept in dormitories. Peak raised his eyebrows when she commented.

‘We'd hardly make you sleep with the marines,' he said. The hint of a smile played on his lips. ‘The navy knows how to look after its guests. This is flag accommodation.'

‘Flag?'

‘Our very own Hilton. Living-quarters for admirals and their staff. We're not at full capacity, so we've got all the space in the world. We've given the flag accommodation to women and the men have been housed in officer berthing. May I?' He walked ahead of her and opened another door. ‘Bathroom.'

‘I'm impressed.'

The soldiers brought in her bags.

‘There's a minibar under the TV,' said Peak. ‘Soft drinks only. I was thinking I'd come back in thirty minutes so we can start the tour. Will that be sufficient?'

‘Absolutely.'

Crowe waited until the door had closed behind him, then hunted for an ashtray. She found one in a sideboard, peeled off her overalls and rummaged through her jacket pockets. It wasn't until she'd opened the crumpled packet, lit the cigarette and taken a drag that she started to feel properly alive.

She sat on the edge of her bed. Two packs a day. She couldn't give up. She'd tried twice and failed.

Maybe her heart wasn't in it.

After a second cigarette, she showered, then pulled on some jeans, sneakers and a sweater. She smoked a third cigarette, and opened all the cupboards and drawers. By the time she heard a knock at the door, she'd already inspected the inside of her cabin so thoroughly that she could have drawn up an inventory from memory. She liked to know how things stood.

It wasn't Peak in the passageway, but Leon Anawak.

‘I told you we'd meet again,' he grinned.

Crowe laughed. ‘And I told you that you'd find your whales. Good to see you, Leon. I hear you're the one I need to thank for being here.'

‘Who told you that?'

‘Li.'

‘Oh, I reckon you'd be here anyway. I had a dream about you.'

‘Oh, my.'

‘Don't worry - you were a kind of friendly spirit. How was the flight?'

‘A bit bumpy. Am I the last to arrive?'

‘The rest of us boarded in Norfolk.'

‘I couldn't get away from Arecibo. You wouldn't believe how much effort it takes to stop working on a project. We had to close down SETI. No one's got the cash to look for little green men at the moment.'

‘There's a good chance you'll find more of them than you bargained for,' said Anawak. ‘Are you ready? Peak will be here in a moment. He'll show you what the
Independence
has to offer and then it's your turn. Everyone's really excited. You've already got a nickname, by the way.'

‘A nickname? What are they calling me?'

‘Ms Alien.'

‘Oh, heavens. For a while everyone called me Miss Foster, after Jodie played me in that film.' Crowe shook her head. ‘Well, why not? So long as I've got a pen for signing autographs. Let's go.'

 

Peak showed her round 02 LEVEL. They'd started their tour in the bow and were making their way amidships. Crowe had admired the gym, crammed with treadmills and weight machines. It was practically deserted. ‘Under normal circumstances you can't move in here for people,' said Peak. ‘The
Independence
can accommodate three thousand men. Right now there are barely two hundred of us aboard.'

They walked through the junior officers' berths - dormitories for between four and six people with comfortable bunks, plenty of storage space and foldaway tables and chairs.

‘Cosy,' said Crowe.

‘Depends on how you look at it. There's not much chance of falling asleep when things get busy on the roof. Those helicopters and jump-jets are roaring up and down the flight deck, only metres above your head. It's hardest on the new recruits. They're exhausted at first.'

‘How long does it take to get used to it?'

‘You don't. You get used to being woken up, though. I've served on flat-tops before, and you're always away for months at a time. After a while it seems normal to be lying there on stand-by. You forget what it's like to sleep soundly. The first night at home is hell. You're listening out for the roar of engines, aircraft landing and helicopters docking, people
running in the passageways, constant announcements - but instead there's just the ticking of your clock.'

They walked past the enormous messroom and came to a watertight door protected by a combination lock. They went into a large, darkened room. For the first time Crowe saw people at work. Lights flashed from consoles as men and women stared at the bank of wide-screen monitors that lined the walls.

‘02 LEVEL is where you'll find most of the control and command rooms,' explained Peak. ‘In the past they'd have been housed in the island, but that's too risky. Enemy missiles are programmed to strike large heat-emitting structures so the island's an obvious target. They'd only have to score a few hits, and we'd be like a body with its head blown off. That's why most of the control rooms are located under the roof.'

‘The roof?'

‘Navy jargon. I meant the flight deck.'

‘And what's your role on board?'

Peak ignored her.

‘This room is the CIC…'

‘Ah. The Combat Information Center.'

The eyes in the narrow ebony-sculpted face flashed with irritation. Crowe resolved to keep her mouth shut.

‘The CIC is the nerve-centre of the vessel,' said Peak. ‘All the information that comes into or goes out of the ship passes through here - data from the ship's sensors, satellites, missile detection, surface-search radar, damage-control, communication - all in real time, of course…It gets pretty darned busy when we're under attack. See those empty desks? I imagine you'll be spending a good deal of time there, Dr Crowe.'

‘Samantha. Or Sam.'

‘Those systems are our underwater eyes and ears,' Peak continued, as though he hadn't heard. ‘Antisub surveillance, SOSUS sonar and Surtass LFA, to name a few. Nothing approaches the
Independence
without us knowing about it.' Peak pointed at a screen mounted at the head of the room, showing a patchwork of diagrams and charts. ‘The big picture. An integrated overview of all the information received by the CIC. A smaller version appears on the screens in the bridge.'

Peak led the way through the adjoining rooms. Almost all were shrouded in half-light, illuminated only by screens, monitors and dis
plays. Next to the CIC was the Landing Force Operations Center. ‘It's the command centre for the Marine Expeditionary Units. Each unit has its own console. During a landing operation, satellite images and recon planes are used to detect the position of enemy troops.' There was an unmistakable note of pride in Peak's voice. ‘The LFOC allows us to shift troops and develop strategies in an instant. The central computer links the commander to his units in a ship-to-shore system.'

Crowe recognised pictures of the flight deck on some of the screens. She knew Peak probably wouldn't appreciate the question, but she couldn't help asking, ‘How will that help us, Major? Our enemy's at the bottom of the sea.'

‘Sure. So we'll use our capabilities for a deep-sea operation. I don't see the problem.'

‘Sorry. I guess that's what comes from spending too much time in space.'

Anawak grinned. So far he hadn't said a word, but Crowe found his presence reassuring. Peak continued the tour. The Joint Intelligence Center came next. ‘All the data from the recon systems is decoded and interpreted here,' said Peak. ‘If anything gets too close to the
Independence
, we take a good look at it, and if the boys don't like it, they shoot it down.'

‘That's a pretty big responsibility,' murmured Crowe.

‘The computer does some of the work for them,' said Peak. ‘But you're right, of course.' He gestured towards the other rooms. ‘Most of what goes on in the CIC and JIC is pretty technical stuff, but we also keep an eye on the news from all over the world. We've always got CNN and NBC on screen, plus a dozen or so other key channels. You'll have access to all the information you need, including the databases of the Defense Mapping Agency. The navy's maps are far more detailed than anything available in the public domain, and you'll have the privilege of using them.'

They carried on down. After the on-board store came empty dormitories and living-quarters, then the hospital on 03 LEVEL, a vast antiseptic expanse with six hundred beds, six operating theatres and a gigantic intensive-care unit. It was deserted. Crowe imagined the scene during an attack: people screaming, blood flowing, doctors and nurses rushing from bed to bed. The more she saw of the
Independence
, the more it seemed to resemble a ghost ship - or a ghost city. They began the
ascent up to 02 LEVEL and continued aft, until they reached a ramp wide enough for vehicles to drive down.

‘The tunnel starts in the bowels of the vessel and zigzags all the way up to the island,' said Peak. ‘The layout of the
Independence
allows all the strategically relevant areas to be accessed by jeep. In an assault situation, the marines would use the tunnel too. Let's head down.'

The steel bulkheads resonated with their footsteps. For a moment Crowe was reminded of a multi-storey car park, but then the enclosed ramp opened on to a hangar bay. Crowe had read that it covered a third of the ship's total length, with a height of two entire decks. There was a strong draught. On either side a colossal open gate led out on to a platform. Pale yellow lighting combined with the sunshine seeping through the gates to bathe the area in hazy light. Glass booths and control points were housed between the ribs. Hooks hung from above, attached to some kind of monorail. Crowe spotted large forklift trucks and two Hummers.