Authors: William H. Lovejoy
“At least, not with that puppy he’s got in tow,” Garrison said.
“I think you’re right. Without him in attendance, we might have gotten some of his search data.”
“So what do we do, Skipper?”
“Just what we planned to do aboard the
Kane
. We follow our revised pattern.”
Taylor, Huck Elliot, and John Cartwright had refined the search procedures presented to them by CINCPAC, and then had further altered them when they received the charts from some oceanographer named Emry. The new pattern eliminated some fifteen square miles of search area.
As far as Taylor knew, Cartwright had not notified CINCPAC of the changes. Maybe he never would.
Taylor certainly was not going to mention it.
*
2035 HOURS LOCAL, 29° 21' NORTH, 167° 9' WEST
During the day, they had gained on the
Orion
, and the research vessel was now visible to the naked eye when it was light enough to see.
The
Arienne
was still in the same position, off the starboard quarter, and Curtis Aaron felt good about that. She was a newer and faster boat than the
Queen
, and she could have left them behind long before.
It had to mean that Mark Jacobs was conceding leadership to Aaron on this mission.
All day long, Aaron had been working toward that possibility, preparing alternative speeches. He was going to have an audience; he knew that. The radio had been alive with news reports filed from the scene. While there seemed to be few developments concerning the rocket and the nuclear reactor, it was very apparent that he would have an audience. Not only were there some fifty ships in the area, but a whole flock of international news people had descended. Sent, no doubt, to help Aaron spread his message.
The world was waiting for it, too. Civil disturbances created by anxious and angry protestors were erupting everywhere. They would want to know how to proceed, guided by an expert who was not afraid to go to the heart of the matter.
In the dark of the flying bridge, Aaron rested with his feet up on the instrument panel, stroked his beard, and contemplated all of the glorious possibilities.
Julie Mecom brought him a rum-and-Coke, and he thanked her.
Dawn Lengren, who was at the helm, gave Julie a dirty look.
*
2030 HOURS LOCAL, 34° 30' NORTH, 162° 20' EAST
Capt. Leonid Talebov used the ship’s public-address system to announce to the officers and men of the
Timofey
Ol’yantsev
that their mission had some possibility of risk associated with it.
The rumors floating around the patrol ship had become rampant by the time Adm. Grigori Orlov, with the President’s assistance, had overruled Vladimir Yevgeni.
Oberstev was relieved, though he was not so certain that the announcement would alleviate any fears among the crew. They had been specifically prohibited from mentioning the September eighth estimate for a possible meltdown.
He had removed his uniform blouse and his shoes, and he was sitting on the bed in the captain’s cabin. Alexi Cherby-kov poured them each a small glass of Stolichnaya vodka and then took the chair at the captain’s desk.
When Talebov’s message was completed, Oberstev asked, “Do you suppose we shall ever overcome our distrust of the masses, Alexi?”
“Distrust, General?”
“Our fear of telling them what we are really doing.”
His aide considered the point for an extended moment, then said, “I believe we will, as soon as our actions are worthy of trust.”
Oberstev grinned. “Excellent. When will that occur, Alexi?”
“Perhaps with the next generation,” his aide said.
And Oberstev feared that he was correct.
When the knock came at the doorway, Oberstev called out, “Enter!”
The door pushed open tentatively, and Pyotr Rastonov poked his head inside.
It was a large head, topped with close-cropped dark hair, and featuring large, inquiring eyes.
“Come in, Captain.”
“I do not want to disturb you, General”
“Pour the captain a drink, Alexi.”
Rastonov accepted the drink gratefully. He stood in the middle of the small cabin, for lack of another chair, and took a sip.
“The
Sea
Lion
?” Oberstev asked.
Rastonov was in charge of the submersible and its crew of scientists and oceanographers. “It will be ready in time, General.”
“Another problem, then?” Oberstev was beginning to see problems behind every motivation.
“After your intervention with Captain Talebov, General, Gennadi Drozdov was allowed to speak with Valeri Dankelov aboard the American research ship.”
“Yes, good. Was the conversation of value?”
“Dankelov sent us a map of the ocean floor that is a compilation derived from a number of explorations.”
“Excellent.”
“Well, uh, General, Colonel Sodur tells me we are to disregard it. He believes it to be an item of American disinformation.”
“And what do you think of it, Captain?”
“I find it plausible. I think it is accurate, and Gennadi Drozdov agrees with me.”
“Then use it.”
Rastonov nodded, but he was not through. “There is one thing more, General Oberstev.”
“Yes?”
Rastonov tapped his chest with his forefingers. “I, for one, and others among my team, are somewhat…concerned about who we report to…who is in charge.”
“I am an Air Force general officer, is that what you mean?”
“Partly, General. And we receive instructions from Colonel Sodur, Captain Talebov, Vladivostok.”
Oberstev had never had a field command, but he knew the problem. CIS military philosophy dictated that higher echelon commands set strategy, and simply by virtue of training, field commands were expected to perform in certain tactical ways, insuring victory in the field. All decisions were made at headquarters levels. In contrast, American philosophy allowed field commanders to make their own decisions on the scene, following only the general strategies devised by headquarters. The CIS rule book tended to fall apart in emergency situations.
And even in nonemergency situations. From the seminars and training sessions he had been required to attend at general staff workshops, he could not see that the planners and military bureaucrats had learned anything from the misadventures in Afghanistan.
“Thank you, Captain. I will see if I cannot clarify the chain of command.”
After Rastonov left, Cherbykov said, “Will it be possible, General, to clarify?”
“We are borrowing much from the Americans, Alexi, in economic and domestic issues. Perhaps it is time to borrow an American command structure.”
“You will speak to Orlov?”
“And demand full command and responsibility. It is my responsibility, after all.” With each day that went by, Oberstev was feeling the increasing weight of the catastrophe.
“The Navy may take exception to Air Force Command.”
“Yes.”
“And Admiral Orlov could relieve you of duty.”
Oberstev reached for his shoes. “We will see if he does.”
Chapter Twelve
0700 HOURS LOCAL, 32° 12' NORTH, 169° 15' EAST
“My inclination, General Oberstev, is to remove you from command,” Adm. Grigori Orlov said. “I am supported in that by Chairman Yevgeni.”
It would be the only issue the two had ever agreed on, Obserstev thought.
“However, after discussions with the general staff at Stavka and with the President, it has been decided that the situation is entirely unique. As you are familiar with the rocket and the reactor, you are to be named field commander for the duration of the recovery operation.”
After the screaming argument Obserstev and Orlov had gotten into the night before, the admiral’s controlled voice and tone was unexpected this morning.
Gurevenich acknowledged the change in attitude, even if it was dictated from higher authority, by displaying his own courtesy. “Thank you, Admiral Orlov. I appreciate your support in this, and I assure you that the mission will run much smoother with communications lines that are clearly drawn.”
“I will be satisfied when the reactor is on the deck of the
Timofey
Olʼyantsev
,” Orlov said. “Confirming written orders for your assignment will be forwarded to all ships. And Chairman Yevgeni reminds you to heed the counsel of Colonel Sodur.”
Not bloody likely, Obserstev thought. “By all means, Admiral.”
Both of the flag officers signed off the scrambled radio frequency, and Obserstev replaced the microphone on its desk pedestal.
Col. Alexi Cherbykov said, “My congratulations to you, General.”
“Let us not be premature, Alexi. Orlov mentioned my expertise with nuclear reactors.”
“Yes, he did. Actually, what he said was your, ‘familiarity’.”
“I have never even touched a nuclear reactor. And we did not bother bringing such experts with us.”
“I will call Plesetsk and have a team assembled, Gen. They can be on instant call, if they are needed.”
“‘If,’ Alexi? Let us say ‘when,’ please.”
*
0850 HOURS LOCAL, 27° 25' NORTH, 174° 57' WEST
Brande wanted everyone to rest today, but unable to sleep or sit, Valeri Dankelov climbed the companionway to the bridge, then asked to use the radio compartment. He sat at the console and pulled the microphone close.
His call was immediately answered by the
Olʼyantsev’s
communications operator, but it took several minutes to locate Gennadi Drozdov.
He had met Drozdov at a conference in Paris in 1988, and they had subsequently stayed in touch with each other, occasionally sharing ideas and theories in regard to the acoustic control of robots.
The
Orion
did not have direct satellite telephone communications with the Soviet ship. They would speak on an open radio frequency, subject to monitoring by any number of people and nations, and Dankelov had learned in his first, short conversation with Drozdov to be cautious in what he said. Though Dankelov had not learned a great deal from the Russian scientist in their first contact, he had managed to at least establish a dialogue.
“Valeri, are you there? Over.”
“Yes, Gennadi. Good morning. Over.”
There was some static which interfered with a clear understanding of each other’s speech. After several exchanges of pleasantries, they achieved a rhythm which allowed them to drop the technical “over” at the end of each transmission.
“Valeri, can you tell me where you are located?”
“Not precisely,” Dankelov said. “I have not been paying attention. I believe it will be another twenty-four hours, or more, before we arrive.”
“We should reach the impact point early in the morning, I think. But we are prepared. The equipment is ready.”
“Will you use the
Seeker
vehicle, Gennadi?”
The hesitation before the response came told Dankelov that Drozdov had a monitor, someone to tell him yes or no in regard to his topics.
“Yes. You already know of it. We have spoken before.”
“I remember, though not all of the details. It has video, sonar, and manipulator arms, does it not? Similar to our
Atlas
with the exception of sonar capability.”
Another pause. “Yes.”
“And tethered control?”
“No. No longer. We…” Another pause, while an argument took place, then Drozdov continued, “We have installed the phase four model of the Loudspeaker acoustic control system.”
Dankelov had not known that the Loudspeaker system was already in its fourth generation of design. “You are finding success?”
“Immense success, Valeri.”
“I am jealous,” Dankelov said. He decided to reveal something of Brande’s plans, to encourage whoever was listening to Drozdov’s end of the dialogue that information sharing was a two-way street.
“My own system, called, if you remember, Tapdance, is not yet operational. We will be using the
DepthFinder
, towing SARSCAN, for the search phase.”
“Is this the SARSCAN model we spoke of last April?”
“No, Gennadi. We still do not have a video capability.”
“Therein lies the beauty of Loudspeaker Four, Valeri. We are acoustically transmitting video images.”
“Digital encoding?”
“Of course. We… ” Drozdov was interrupted again. When he finally came back, he said, “I must sign off now, Valeri. The radio is required for another task.”
“I understand. Perhaps we may talk again this afternoon?”
“I will look forward to it,” Drozdov said.
Dankelov signed off the frequency, but continued to sit in the operator’s swivel chair. He was, in fact, jealous of Drozdov’s advances in video transmission. Jealous, but also excited. The revelation had given him something new to think about, and he wondered how much he could learn from Drozdov before this operation ended.
The intricacies of Loudspeaker Four would be a State secret, naturally, but he hoped to discover what he could about the theory that had gone into it. Dankelov was not particularly concerned about knowing the actual schematics. He could develop his own.
He was not disheartened by the knowledge that Loudspeaker’s circuitry would be considered a CIS possession. Though he frequently longed to return to his homeland, he had learned a great deal about capitalism with which he happened to agree. While he felt no compunction about discussing abstract concepts, he would never reveal the patented designs owned by Marine Visions, himself and others. He could not rationalize any kind of fairness in such revelations.
He began to wonder if too much of the West had become ingrained in him.
*
0815 HOURS LOCAL, WASHINGTON, DC
Carl Unruh had slept for six straight hours in his own bed, next to his own wife, but he did not feel rested. He got back to the White House basement in time to take a call from the Deputy Director of Operations.
Patterson asked, “Is the boss around?”
“Which one?”
“Stebbins, you ass.”
Unruh placed his hand over the mouthpiece and called out to the men and two women lolling around the Situation Room. “Anyone seen the DCI?”
“Upstairs with the President,” Denise Something-or-other told him. She was with the State Department, but he did not know in what capacity.
“He’s closeted with the big boss, Oren. You got something hot?”
“Yeah, maybe. Can you get him out?”
“I can try.”
“Well, hell, skip it. I guess you’re in operational charge, right?”
“Mark mentioned something to that effect,” Unruh said, looking around the room at the people who mostly ignored him, “but I don’t think it means much to the group assembled here. You want to trade places?”
“Emphatic no.”
“So what do you have?”
“Computer tape”
“Good one?”
“I don’t know. It turned up at the embassy in Moscow after a trip across the country from Plesetsk.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I don’t think so, Carl. It’s nothing the embassy can interpret, and rather than wait for it to ship out in the diplomatic bag, I told them to do a direct data transfer of what’s on the tape.”
“To where?”
“Fort Meade.”
“Okay, good. What do you think is on it, Oren?”
“If it came from the Cosmodrome, it may be what we’re looking for. We’re doing the transfer by microwave relay, in the clear, because I don’t want to take the chance of destroying it by trying to encode it. I don’t give a damn if Moscow Center overhears us.”
“I agree. How soon?”
“They’re going to transmit as soon as NSA is ready to accept it.”
“I’ll go up to the Office and knock on the door. What are they going to need out there?”
“I’m damned if I know. It might just be data, or it might be an applications program, or it might be both. If it’s what we want it to be, we’ll need computer, aerospace, and nuclear experts. Maybe some computer people who are intimately conversant with the Russian language.”
“You’ll get them,” Unruh said, dropping the phone in its cradle and heading for the door.
*
1455 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 58' NORTH, 178° 32' WEST
Kaylene Thomas and Okey Dokey had been the designated inspection team for the two o’clock rounds of the ROVs. They found a weak battery aboard
Atlas
, but otherwise, every system checked out.
Okey stayed behind to charge out the battery pack, and Thomas climbed to the bridge, then went aft to the guest staterooms.
Ingrid Roskens was not in the cabin they shared, and Thomas supposed she was down helping Larry Emry. Reports from some of the submarines were starting to filter in, channeled through the
Kane
to CINCPAC and the
Orion
. Like Ingrid and most of the people who were supposed to be resting today, Thomas was not very tired.
Spread across her bunk were the stacks of paper and folders she had been perusing.
She did not feel very much like reorganizing the company, either.
Since her embarrassing crying jag with Dane, she had been unable to focus well. Maybe it was the realization of the danger zone they were entering. Maybe it was something else.
In fact, she was pretty sure it was something else.
Closing the door, she peeled off her T-shirt and jeans, then her underwear, and sidled into the tiny bathroom for a quick shower. It was quick because Mel Sorenson had decreed a two-minute limit for the fresh water showers. He had threatened random, unannounced inspections if he heard showers running for longer than the allotted time.
Still, she felt refreshed when she came out. She toweled off, then found a pair of white shorts and an old, but hardy, blue blouse. Stacking the paper from the bunk on the deck next to it, she fluffed the pillow, then sprawled out.
And somebody rapped on the door.
“Iʼm asleep,” she called.
Til come back,” Brande said.
She sat up. “No, come on in.”
Brande pushed open the louvered door.
“I was lying when I said I was asleep.”
“I guessed that,” he said, taking a seat on the bunk opposite her. “How are you doing?”
She smiled weakly, “I’m coming to grips with reality, I guess.”
“It happens.”
She pointed at the stack of paper. “Iʼm rattled enough that I don’t even care about that.”
“That’s okay, too. Paper will always wait.”
His deep blue eyes probed her own. Was he looking for weak spots? Having second thoughts after her emotional scene?
“I feel kind of foolish,” she said.
“Why?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
“The president is supposed to maintain a strong, solid front.”
-“Hey, you’re doing fine, Rae. Be yourself. That’s what we all want. If you go making up a new role for yourself, you’ll disappoint some people.”
“Like you?”
“Not me,” he said.
There seemed to be a fair amount of sincerity reflected in his eyes. Nice eyes.
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
“Being boss? I thought I would, but damned if I’m not happier without it.”
She glanced down at his hands. They were big and scarred and presently at a loss for what to do with themselves. His fingers flexed. They looked incongruously gentle.
Thomas suddenly felt her throat flush. Her nipples hardened. She wondered if Brande was aware of that, but she was afraid to look down to check the front of her blouse, and his eyes did not leave hers, anyway.
“Dane…”
“Uh-huh?”
She was going to ask him about his wife, then quickly decided not to break her own spell.
“Ah, nothing.”
He reached out and took her hands in his own. She could feel the calluses on his fingers. Hard yet soft. Her stomach felt queasy.