TW05 The Nautilus Sanction NEW (27 page)

He took out his disruptor, set it on spray, and fired.

“Captain, we must abandon ship!” cried Sasha, leaving his station at the helm.

“Sit back down!” said Drakov.

Unable to resist the conditioning, the Russian sailor returned to his post, looking around at the control room helplessly. Smoke was seeping in.

“Sir, we don’t dare submerge,” said one of the other crewmen. “We’re taking on too much water.

We’ve been badly damaged. I’m shutting the reactor down.”

“Switch to diesel engines,” Drakov said.

“No!” shouted one of the other men. “It’s useless, don’t you see? We’ll die!” He grabbed Drakov, but Shiro tossed him aside as if he weighed nothing. Water was now coming into the control room. Despite the immense strength of the submarine’s titanium double hulls, a pinpoint warp grenade explosion had caused a rupture and a spray had burst into the room, soaking down three of the men at the controls. They jumped at once and ran for the stairs leading to the hatch. Shiro turned to stop them, but Drakov called out, “Let them go! They’re useless now.” At the words “Let them go,” the rest of the control room crew bolted.

“The key, Shiro!” Drakov said.

As they fought to get up the stairs, the Soviet sailors were caught in a blast of neutrons and ceased to exist.

Drakov inserted his key into the box containing the arming and firing mechanisms.

Lucas came sliding down the hatch, into the rapidly accumulating water on the control room floor.

With a snarl of rage and frustration, Drakov hit his warp disc and clocked out. Shiro had just inserted his key into the box.

“Don’t do it, Shiro,” Lucas said softly, aiming the disruptor at him.

Two coal-black eyes stared at him with loathing.

“It’s over,” Lucas said. “He’s deserted you. There’s no point in—” Moving with dazzling swiftness, Shiro turned the key and flipped open the box. Lucas fired. Shiro’s atoms were scattered just as he was reaching for the buttons.

Lucas sloshed forward through the knee-deep water and gently closed the box, then took the keys out. He let his breath out slowly.

A glance at the indicators told him the reactor had been shut down. None of the missiles had been armed and all the silo hatches were still closed. But the attack was still continuing. He felt the sub shudder and roll and he was thrown into the water on the floor. For fear of exploding the missiles, they were using only the lowest setting on the warp grenades, using them as depth charges thrown into the water close to the sub, to rupture its hull. It was working very well. Blasts of water were coming in everywhere now and he had to fight his way through it to the ladder leading up to the hatch.

He tucked his disruptor inside his suit and climbed up, his feet slipping off the rungs. As he opened the hatch, he heard footsteps on the deck and before he could cry out a warning, a warp grenade came dropping down through the opening. He caught it, lunged through the hatchway and threw it as hard as he could out into the lake. The pinpoint blast went off, sending a gout of water up into the air. He looked up at Lieutenant Bryant, standing on the deck of the submarine, holding an auto-pulser pointed at him.

Bryant lowered the weapon and without a flicker of expression, shrugged.

Lucas simply glared at him.

It was over. The remainder of Drakov’s force had surrendered and they were being gathered together to be clocked back to Plus Time for conditioning and return to their own time periods. The stolen warp discs were found in one of the supply rooms in the main building.

Forrester landed on the beach by Andre, after taking to the air briefly to survey the scene. Finn was kneeling in the sand beside Martingale, his hands badly burned from putting out the flames. Martingale was unrecognizable. His entire body had been severely burned and he lay on his back in the sand, a charred lump of flesh, barely breathing.

“He’s had it,” said Forrester.

Finn shook his head. “No. No, he’s in a real bad
way,
but we’ve got to try to pull him through. We
have
to.”

“Who is he?” said Forrester.

“The guy who saved our asses,” Finn said.

Forrester nodded, grimly. “Then I guess we’d best try to save his.” He beckoned one of the other men forward, then he unstrapped his warp disc, quickly reprogrammed it, then bent down and gently put it around Martingale’s wrist. Martingale’s own warp disc was burned into uselessness, melded into the crisped flesh of his hand. “Hardesty, give me your disc,” said Forrester.

The soldier quickly unstrapped his disc and tossed it to the colonel. Forrester programmed it and gave it to Finn. Delaney tried to put it on, but couldn’t manage it and Hardesty had to help him.

“They’re set for TAMAC,” said Forrester, referring to the Temporal Army Medical Complex in Colorado Springs. “Get yourself taken care of and you tell ‘em if they don’t pull this guy through, I’ll be down there to kick some ass.”

“You got it,” Finn said. A moment later, they clocked out.”Verne!” Andre shouted.

“What?” said Forrester.

She was looking up at Drakov’s house, perched high up on the wall above the lake. It had caught several pulser blasts and was in flames.

“We have to get up there,” Andre said. “Now! Get me up there! We’ve got to get him out!”

“Hardesty!” said Forrester. He turned on his jets and picked Andre up in his arms. Hardesty flew up alongside them as they rose to the burning house. Verne was out on the veranda, trying to shield his face from the smoke and flames. “Get him!” Forrester shouted to Hardesty.

Hardesty swooped up and grabbed Verne under the arms, lifting him off the veranda floor. Verne shut his eyes tightly and let loose with a rapid torrent of French. Hardesty understood French. He grinned as he heard The Lord’s Prayer. They quickly descended to safety and watched from the beach as the house fell down the side of the sheer wall and crashed onto the rocks below. Lucas and Bryant came up to join them and together they watched the
Nautilus
sink below the surface of the lake, into the depths of the volcano.

Verne sat at a table in the First Division lounge, looking incongruous in his black base fatigues as he signed autographs for the commandos who clustered around him. Lucas sat across from him, drinking Irish whiskey and Andre sat on his right, sipping a Scotch.

“You have no idea what this means to me,” said Verne, who was completely overcome by the experience. “I must be the only writer in history to know for certain that his work shall live on after he has died! To think that after so much time has passed, people will still read and enjoy my books. I could not have received a finer, more wonderful gift! Thank you. Thank you.”

“All right, people, give it a rest. Let the man breathe for a minute,” said Forrester, coming up to their table. “He’ll be able to stay for a little while yet, so give us a few minutes, okay?” The crowd reluctantly dispersed as they all went back to the bar and to their tables. Forrester pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Col. Forrester, I must tell you how grateful I am for this incredible experience,” said Verne. “To have seen the future! And what wonders it holds in store!”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Verne,” said Forrester. He signaled for a drink.

“You can appreciate, I think, why it would be dangerous for someone from another time to have knowledge of what will occur in the future. Temporal inertia is a strange thing. It takes a great deal to overcome it, which is very fortunate for us. Our occasional interferences in history don’t always cause disruptions in the timestream and, when they do, unless they are tremendously disruptive, they can usually be fixed. That’s our main job in the First Division.”

“Yes, I think I understand,” said Verne. “That was how this entire episode began.”

“Well, the people Drakov took from their own time periods and recruited into his group have all gone through a conditioning process and been returned to their own times,” said Forrester. “Those of them who had not been killed, of course. Fortunately, none of those people were significant, historically speaking, so chances are their deaths won’t cause any major problems, though we’ll be on the watch for that. The point is, they have now been returned to where they belong and none of them will remember anything of what has occurred.”

Verne’s face took on an expression of profound chagrin. “I see,” he said. “I understand. Naturally, I cannot be permitted to recall any of this. Of course. I will have to submit to this conditioning process of yours and have all these priceless memories erased.”

Andre reached out and took his hand. “I’m sorry, Jules,” she said. “I wish there were another way.”

“No, no, do not apologize,” said Verne. “It is perfectly understandable. I would not wish to cause any problems. if I must forget, then I must forget.
C’est tout dire.”

“I admire your attitude, Mr. Verne,” said Forrester. “However, that isn’t quite the case here. We have a particular problem with you.”

“What do you mean, sir?” said Lucas, frowning.

“I mean I’ve just come from a conference with the Referees,” said Forrester. “Your case, Mr.

Verne, has given them some mighty vicious headaches. You see, historically speaking, you are an important person. You are an important writer. And, at the time this entire thing began, you had still to write some of your greatest books. The Referees, who are very highly educated people and understand these things much better than I do, tell me the creative process is extremely delicate. Evidently, the least little thing can disturb it.”

“Ah, yes,” said Verne. “
Cela va sans dire.
How well I know!”

“And there we have our problem,” Forrester continued. “The Referees are afraid to risk doing anything that might affect your delicate creative faculties. Which means, Mr. Verne, that they have decided it would be too risky to have you conditioned.”

“Son of a bitch!” said Lucas.

“There seems to be only one thing we can do about you, Mr. Verne,” said Forrester. “A great deal will depend on your cooperation, of course. We don’t really
need
your cooperation, but it would make things very much easier, both for you and for everyone else concerned. I think you’re perfectly capable of understanding the situation and the necessity for it; that’s what I told the Referee Corps. So, they propose to do the following: to return you to your own time and allow you to continue with your life as you would have otherwise. You must never reveal, in any way whatsoever, anything you have seen here or any of the technology or information you have had access to in any manner that might affect the course of history. You understand? It will be necessary to keep you under observation, which will be done as discreetly and unobtrusively as humanly possible, although it will be imperative for one of our Observers to . . . read through your manuscripts before you submit them, just to make sure there is not any potentially damaging information in them. Now, I understand how an author might feel about something like this, but it need not be censorship, Mr. Verne, if you will exercise caution and restraint in what you write, strictly in terms of technical matters. That’s the way it’s going to have to be.”

“Then . . . then I am going to be allowed to remember all of this?” said Verne, brightening.

“That’s right,” said Forrester.

“But I cannot use any of my experiences in my writing,” Verne said, the brightness fading into gloom abruptly.

“Well, that depends,” said Forrester, choosing his words with great care. “For example, if you were to write a work of
fiction,
suitably identifiable as such, about . . . oh, a submarine, for example . . . so long as there was nothing in the book to actually enable anyone to build one and so long as certain scientific principles were not revealed—”

“You mean if I were to make it entirely imaginary,” said Verne, “obfuscate technical details, merely draw on my experience to write a sort of fantasy—”

“Precisely,” Forrester said. “It would depend entirely on how you handled it, of course, but I don’t think something like that would present any problems.”

“But this is wonderful!” said Verne. “I shall be completely circumspect, Colonel. The secrets of the future will be safe with me.”

“That’s all we ask,” said Forrester.

“Colonel, if I might ask one favor, if it would be possible . . . ?”

“Certainly, Mr. Verne.”

“It is about Ned Land,” said Verne. “If I could be allowed to somehow pay tribute to a brave man by remembering him in my work—well, it would be a small thing, but it would mean a lot to me.”

“I think that would be appropriate,” said Forrester. “Now if you will excuse us, we’ll leave you to your admirers, who have been
specifically
instructed not to discuss your future work with you. It’s been an honor, sir.”

As they moved away from the table, Lucas cleared his throat.

“Did I just hear you give him the idea to write
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Forrester. “I didn’t put him aboard that sub. Besides, a writer has to write what he knows, doesn’t he?”

“I think I just heard a hair being split,” said Andre. “As you were, Sergeant,” Forrester said.

“Sergeant?”

“You’ve been promoted. Congratulations. Priest, you’ve made lieutenant colonel. You keep this up, you’ll wind up outranking me. Since we can’t have that, you’re going to have to settle for a decoration next time.”

“How about just giving me a raise, instead?” said Lucas.

“I’ll submit your request through channels,” said Forrester.

Lucas grimaced and looked at Andre. “A decoration,” he said.

Finn was sitting up in the bed next to Martingale’s when they walked in. His hands were swathed in bandages. Martingale’s entire body was encased in a sterile cocoon with openings for the eyes, the nostrils and the mouth. Forrester tossed a small box onto Delaney’s bed.

“What’s this?” said Finn. He couldn’t open it. “Lieutenant’s bars,” said Forrester.