Authors: William H. Lovejoy
Noth…
Looked again. Refocused.
Cruiser.
Going like a bat out of hell.
OCEAN FREE screamed from the hull.
“Hey!” Overton yelled, pointing.
Every officer on the bridge turned, raising their field glasses to their eyes.
Why had someone not seen Aaron coming on a radar or something?
But where was he going?
Overton trained his glasses on the research ship, but did not see anything he had not seen in the last hours.
Switched to the Commonwealth ship. Same thing.
Wait.
A hundred yards this side of the CIS ship, something was bobbing in the sea.
He leaned into the window, spun the focus wheel.
A submersible had just surfaced. All he could see was the sail, and it disappeared, falling behind a wave crest.
Alarms sounded and the
Bronstein
surged forward.
Overton held onto a grab bar, trying to keep the binoculars trained on his target.
Jesus! That Aaron was crazy as hell.
Probably did not know the difference between a reactor and a submersible.
Getting close.
The cruiser was maybe a couple hundred feet from the sub.
He was going to stop?
No. Plunging straight ahead.
The submersible rose into view at the top of a wave.
Overton felt sick. It was as if he personally had pushed Aaron into this.
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
The cruiser slammed into the sub when it was at the top of the wave.
A second went by, two seconds.
Wilson Overton saw the flash of the detonation before he heard it. Bright yellow-red-orange fireball.
The thunder rolled slowly toward him, but he was already bent over, his stomach contracting, and his supper splashing on the bulkhead.
*
0009 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 19' 47" NORTH, 176° 10' 28" EAST
Brande had been talking to Pyotr Rastonov when Rastonov’s phone went dead.
He had immediately asked Rae, “What happened up there?”
“God, Dane, it’s awful.”
“Jesus, what? The reactor?”
Dokey looked at him with a white face.
“No. Some cruiser just crashed into the
Sea
Lion
. It blew up. Fuel tanks.”
Brande’s stomach churned.
“I should have gone to the bathroom before we left,” Dokey said.
“The
Olʼyantsev
and the
Bronstein
are putting boats over.”
“How about the reactor?”
“Mel says another hundred feet.”
Brande looked at his own depth readout. They were at 600 feet and rising at the maximum rate.
“Everybody ready?”
“Yes,” she said. “Bob’s got a crew ready, and he’s talked to the Russian nuclear people. Svetlana did the translation.”
By the time the
DepthFinder
reached the surface and began to toss in the swells, the reactor was on the aft deck of the
Orion
. Brande cruised around near the stern, waiting.
Dokey talked to Connie Alvarez-Sorenson on the UHF.
At twenty-one minutes after midnight, Bob Mayberry came on the radio. “Control rods are shut down, Dane.”
“Son of a bitch! Good job, Bob.”
“Aw, hell! Those guys in Russia were wrong. I think we had smother couple hours.”
September 16
Chapter Seventeen
1050 HOURS LOCAL, SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
Rather than subject himself to a potential inquisition by the fourth estate, Hampstead bought economy-class tickets on a commercial carrier, and United Airlines got him into San Diego International within two minutes of the advertised arrival time.
He and Adrienne stayed in their seats until the people in a hurry had jammed the aisles of the Boeing 767 and then gushed forth into the terminal. Then they got up and deplaned leisurely, Hampstead carrying their two overnighters and Adrienne’s hanging bag.
Kaylene Thomas was waiting at the gate for them.
“Dane couldn’t make it?” he asked.
“Unavoidably detained,” she said. “But he said he’d get in touch with you later in the week. If you’re actually taking a whole week’s vacation.”
“The whole week.” He nodded. “Anyway, my primary purpose was to introduce the two of you. Kaylene, Adrienne.”
The two women shook hands and sized each other up. Adrienne was several inches taller than Thomas, but she had the dark coloring of the Hampsteads. Her only resemblance to Avery was in the slightly elongated shape of her face. She had laughing green eyes and a smile that could charm the last twenty bucks out of Scrooge.
“I’ll run you out to La Jolla,” Thomas said. “And Dane said you could use his car while you’re here.”
“The old Pontiac?”
“That’s the one.”
“I think we’ll rent,” Hampstead said.
“I like old cars,” Adrienne told him.
“Before we go,” Hampstead said, “let’s find a place to sit down and get our business over with.”
They walked up the concourse to the terminal and found a coffee shop with a vacant table.
Seated amid the luggage and beautiful women, Hampstead said, “Adrienne?”
His sister dug through a voluminous beige leather purse and came up with the envelope.
Thomas gave him a questioning look.
“Adrienne handles money well,” he said. “Better than Brinks. She also raises funds well.”
Thomas took the envelope, but before opening it, said, “You know the Navy billed us for that C-130?”
“I know. I took care of it directly.”
Thomas smiled and opened the envelope.
Frowned.
There were quite a few checks in there.
“The first one completes our contract, Kaylene. Three hundred and sixty-some thousand. The rest of them are from grateful governments. Japan, Korea, the Philippines, California, Oregon, Alaska, like that.”
“My God, Avery! How did that happen?”
“I got some phone numbers, and Adrienne made some calls.”
Thomas looked at his sister with some awe and respect in her eyes. She said, “Have you ever considered a career in fund-raising for a poor oceanographic research firm?” Hampstead was glad he had introduced them.
*
2115 HOURS LOCAL, RENO, NEVADA
Brande was unavoidably detained in the semidarkened lounge of the MGM Grand, enjoying a Johnnie Walker Black Label and a trio of young ladies who did credible things with old standards like ʻStardustʼ, ʻBlue Skiesʼ and ʻUnchained Melodyʼ.
The dinner with Capt. Alfred Taylor, Cmdr. Neil Garrison and a Navaho chief petty officer named Tsosie had been congenial and delicious. His prime rib had been so tender it melted if he stared hard at it.
“You sure didn’t need to do this, Al,” he had told the commander.
“We damned sure did. My whole crew went to the memorial service for the men of the
Tashkent
. You can’t help but think how easy it would have been to add our names to that list.”
“And fortunately,” Garrison added, “the crew of the
Sea
Lion
wasn’t on the list, either.”
The pressure hull of the CIS submersible had protected Pyotr Rastonov and his two crewmen from the blast, though they had been shaken up some. The outer hull was a total loss, however.
Curtis Aaron and the people who had been with him — they never got a final count — had not been memorialized.
Brande was sorry Valeri Dankelov had not come along to meet the representatives of the
Los
Angeles
and enjoy their hospitality. He was even sorrier that the somber, brown Russian had returned to Leningrad. They were going to miss his expertise.
Dankelov had, however, written a long recommendation endorsing Svetlana Polodka’s visa extension, and she was likely to get it.
Kim Otsuka had come in Dankelov’s place, and in a chic black cocktail dress, captured the attention of the United States Navy. In a gentlemanly way, of course.
She was now out in the hushed cerise hugeness of the casino with Okey Dokey, who was wearing a blue baseball cap with an admiral’s braid and the golden script SSN
Los
Angeles
. He had five hundred dollars’ worth of quarters and a system to beat the slots.
The girl trio was halfway into ʻGeorgia On My Mindʼ when Thomas arrived.
She was wearing a low-cut, light blue velvet dress that matched her eyes and dark blue high heels. Brande tried to remember if he had ever seen her in a dress and heels before. He may have been exceptionally blind. He knew damned well he had never seen her with earrings in place before.
By the radiance in her eyes and her smile, Brande guessed the meeting with Hampstead had gone well.
He stood up and pulled the chair for her.
She gave him a quick kiss, but did not sit down.
He smiled at her. “I guess Avery did all right by us?”
“Two-point-six million.”
“Feel better about it?”
“Uh-huh. Aren’t you surprised?”
“Only by your beauty.”
“Thank you, Dr. Brande.”
“What are we going to do with the money?”
“Pay bills.”
“You don’t want to go out and try a blackjack table for a little while?” he asked. “Just a couple hundred thousand?”
“As long as I’m president, we’re not gambling,” she told him.
“Seems like a restrictive policy to me, but you’re the boss. Do you want to sit down and listen to the girls or something?”
“I’d rather something.”
Going up in the elevator, Brande said, “Did you realize that Jim Word and George Dawson are five days beyond the deadline we set for them?”
Brande had consciously not raised the issue before.
“That’s okay,” Rae Thomas told him. “I gave them another twenty days. Who knows, they might find something.”
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Ultra Deep
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