Authors: William H. Lovejoy
“Bull Kontas is over seventy years old, Rae. Where’s he going to find another job?”
“Oh, shit!”
*
1145 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 16' NORTH, 178° 16' EAST
Cmdr. Alfred Taylor stood on the bridge, within the sail of the
Los
Angeles
, as she cruised on the surface at twenty knots. He drank in the cool briny air, which tasted tainted and fresh at the same time, a refreshing change from the manufactured atmosphere of the submarine.
The sea washed over the bow of the sub, miniature rainbows reflected in the white spume.
On his right, steaming on a parallel course a hundred yards away was the
Philadelphia
. Every once in a while, her captain and her executive officer would look over at Taylor and Garrison and grin. The grins were a little strained.
They were moving on the surface at reduced speed in order to give the
Kane
a chance to catch up with them. Their sister submarine, the
Houston
, had checked in by radio, but she was forty miles to the north and would rendezvous with the research ship later.
“We’re going to have some heavy weather in a couple days,” Garrison said.
“Intuition, Neil?”
“Met report. It won’t bother us, but it might play havoc with any surface ships.”
“Especially with research vessels deploying submersibles, you mean?”
“Especially those,” Garrison said.
Six minutes later, Garrison swung his binoculars astern, then steadied them with his elbows on the coaming of the sail. “We’ve got a ship bow-up on the horizon, Skipper.”
“
Kane’s
doing pretty well for an old lady,” Taylor said.
“I’ll have the dinghy put over,” Garrison said.
Forty minutes after that, Taylor left his boat and was transferred to the
Kane
by a sailor manning the fifty-horsepower outboard Johnson.
He and Cmdr. H.E. Elliot of the
Philadelphia
met with the research vessel’s captain in the wardroom, accepting mugs of hot coffee.
Capt. John Cartwright was almost sixty years old. His hair was struggling to hang onto an umber tint, but the gray was creeping in from his temples. With his aristocratic nose, straight-set lips and high forehead, he had a classical appearance.
Cartwright tossed his uniform cap at a sideboard. “Sit, gentlemen.”
They both found cushioned chairs around the green felt-covered table.
“If I were adamant about military protocol and courtesy,” Cartwright said, Iʼd have been a commodore some time ago. Iʼm not. Iʼm more interested in what I can find in the ocean depths, and so are the people I work with. So, if you find us less than formal, and care about it, you’re out of luck.”
Taylor grinned at him. “It won’t bother me, sir.”
“John.”
“Al.”
“And I was christened Huckleberry,” Elliot said.
“You’re shitting me,” Cartwright said.
“No. It’s got to be Huck.”
“All right, Al and Huck, we’ve got work to do. I’ve had a few dozen messages from CINCPAC, apparently put together by a bunch of experts looking over the admiral’s shoulder. And I have a strongly recommended course of action to follow. Tell me what you think of it.”
Cartwright spread a large chart on the table. Drawn on it was a grid of lines.
Taylor took one look, compared it to the mental picture he had of the pattern he and Garrison had worked out, and said, “Not much.”
“Me, either,” Elliot said. “My exec and I made some preliminary plans that don’t match that at all.”
Cartwright rolled the chart and tossed it to one side. “Scratch that, then.”
He unrolled a fresh chart and Taylor and Elliot helped flatten it with ashtrays and coffee mugs.
“Okay,” Cartwright said. “First. You know the Russians are already on the scene?”
“News to me,” Taylor said.
“Their first sub got there last night. SSN named the
Winter
Storm
, commanded by Captain Mikhail Gurevenich. He’s a capable man. A short time later, the
Tashkent
showed up. It’s also an SSN, and the boss man is Boris Verhenski. His dossier, according to Navy Intelligence, says he’s been a fast mover through the ranks and he’s ambitious. One of our recon planes got photos of the two subs meeting on the surface.” Cartwright told them about the eminent arrivals of the rocket cruisers
Kirov
, and
Kynda
, and the patrol ship
Olʼyantsev
.
“That’s them,” Elliot said. “Are we us?”
“Yes, except for the
Bronstein
and the
Antelope
which are already in place. They’re trying to be policemen without the authority to police. We’ve also got a private research vessel on the way, the
Orion
, but it’s a few days out. I doubt that they’re going to be here in time for much search activity. It’d be nice if we could point them in the right direction.”
Cartwright outlined the problems posed by the maverick surface vessels already in the region.
“That’s what we’ve got to work within, Al and Huck. What are your thoughts?”
“How about Navy submersibles?”
“They flew one out of England, but during the stopover in San Diego, discovered some sort of problem. They’re working on it.”
“Are we getting any reports from the CIS subs?” Taylor asked.
“None. CINCPAC says Washington is working toward some kind of cooperation, but nothing is forthcoming as yet”
“Fuck ’em, then,” Elliot said. “Both the Russians and the experts at Pearl. Let’s do it ourselves.”
“Let’s,” Cartwright said.
“I’ll do the drawing,” Taylor said, picking up a sharpened pencil and a straightedge. “I got a ‘C’ in drafting.”
“That’s better than I got,” Cartwright told him.
*
1112 HOURS LOCAL, 40° 18' NORTH, 145° 47' EAST
“Captain Gurevenich wishes to speak to you, Comrade General,” Leonid Talebov said.
“Gurevenich?”
“He is commander of the
Winter
Storm
. Both he and the
Tashkent
commander are on the frequency.”
Oberstev walked across the bridge and took the microphone from Captain Talebov. The tall naval captain towered over him, and he turned to look forward. He had an unobstructed view of the bow and the seas ahead of the
Timofey
Olʼyantsev
. The ocean was a beautiful aquamarine, as fine as the gem. The sun was gaining on its zenith, shining brightly, but he knew the air outside the bridge was chilled. In the view to his left, the overcast skies seemed to be gaining on them.
“This is General Oberstev.”
“Comrade General, I am Captain Gurevenich. Captain Verhenski is on the channel, also.”
“What is it that I can do for you, Captain? How is your submarine?” Oberstev had seen the report of the ramming incident.
“The damage is minimal,” Gurevenich said. “It will not affect our mission.”
“I am pleased by that,” Oberstev said. “It is the first good news I have had in days.”
“Thank you, General. We have received the search plan from Fleet Headquarters, along with the information that you will be the on-site commander.”
“That is true,” Oberstev said.
“And we have completed the first few legs of the search plan.”
“Yes?”
“The results are negative, General.”
“How deep are your sonars?”
“One-four-hundred meters,” Gurevenich said.
“We are running at the same depths,” Verhenski added.
“You have no feedback at all?”
“It is negative in terms what we seek,” Gurevenich said. “We cannot get the sonar arrays deep enough to find the bottom, except for several mountaintops.”
Oberstev looked around the bridge. Captain Talebov studied him, noncommittal. Alexi Cherbykov shook his head, rather sadly. Janos Sodur was offering the wisdom of his most sour look, suggesting that if Oberstev did not provide the right decision, Chairman Vladimir Yevgeni would know of it within seconds and subsequently provide the correct version.
“I am not a mariner,” Oberstev said into the microphone, “but my recommendation would be that, given the priority of this operation, you operate your craft at the extremes of your depth capability.”
“Is that a recommendation, General, or an order?”
Sodur glared at him.
“An order, Captain. It is an order.”
*
1925 HOURS LOCAL, 32° 16' NORTH, 142° 21' WEST
It
was
much
like
swimming
in
warm
crystal
,
Brande
thought
.
The
water
slid
over
his
skin
like
velvet,
and
he
could
see
so
clearly
he
might
have
been
viewing
a
television
image
.
Visibility
exceeded
a
hundred
feet
.
He
swam
lazily
,
barely
moving
his
fins
,
rocking
his
shoulders
easily
as
his
arms
trailed
out
beside
him
.
The
weight
of
the
scuba
tank
was
neutralized
.
The
exhalation
bubbles
rose
behind
him
in
a
long
arc
.
Below
,
the
vibrant
blue
and
orange
and
yellow
and
red
hues
of
coral
and
sea
flowers
and
tropical
fish
made
his
world
come
to
vivid
life
.
The
warm
waters
of
the
Caribbean
were
soothing
after
the
tumultuous
month
behind
him
.
He
and
Janelle
had
received
their
doctorates
on
June
sixth
.
On
June
eighth
,
his
MGTD
,
which
he
had
restored
and
raced
in
rallies
,
was
stolen
by
a
fifteen
-
year
-
old
refugee from
high
school
who
thought
he
was
a
future
Juan
Fangio
.
The
teenager
and
the
MG
were
both
totaled
in
Trabuco
Canyon
attempting
a
curve
at
twice
the
posted
limit
.
On
June
eleventh
,
Henning
Sven
Brande
died
.
Sven
died
as
he
had
lived
,
quietly
and
strongly
.
Janelle
and
her
mother
made
around
a
hundred
telephone
calls
and
put
off
the
wedding
for
two
weeks
while
Brande
flew
back
to
Minnesota
to
help
his
grandmother
with
the
funeral
arrangements
.
He
also
helped
Bridgette
,
who
suddenly
appeared
more
frail
and
more
dependent
than
he
had
expected
,
move
to
a
duplex
in
Grand
Rapids
.
The
tears
streamed
down
her
face
when
she
signed
the
real
-
estate
agreement
to
put
the
wheat
farm
up
for
sale
.
Brande
felt
as
if
he
had
failed
two
very
good
people
.