GEN13 - Version 2.0 (7 page)

The two shared a laugh at that. But as the Captain looked back down at the table, he suddenly noticed the dampness on the floor. It was probably nothing—a simple spill, or leftover moisture from the last cleaning crew. But still . . .

The Captain called over the seaman who was manning the mess hall. The seaman didn’t know how to explain it either.

That was when the alarms started to sound.

The Captain dropped his sandwich and ran to the bridge. His feet splashed through water all the way along. It was almost ankle-deep in some places.

The sub had become a flurry' of action. Everyone aboard was moving. Running. Scrambling. Sealing hatches. Manning controls. Trying to do whatever they

could, without really knowing what was going on.

The bridge was even worse. Everyone was talking at once, trying to figure out what was happening while trying simultaneously to correct it.

Even as he stepped onto the bridge, the Captain took command of the situation. “Status report?”

“We’re taking on water, sir,” said the executive officer. “I can see that, Roman. Tell me something I don’t know.” The Captain turned to the planesman. “Initiate emergency procedures. Blow the tanks.” Blowing the tanks—forcing high-pressure air into the ballast tanks— would displace the sea water that they currently held and make the sub more buoyant. It was the fastest way to bring the ship to the surface.

“We already did, sir,” the planesman replied, trying to keep himself under control. “It’s not working. This isn’t a minor leak. We’re taking on water at least as fast as we’re pumping it out of the tanks.”

“Have we isolated the breach?”

“Breaches, sir,” said the chief engineer. He listened to his headset for a moment. “At least two. One in the engine room, lower level. The other on the upper deck.”

“Two? Where the hell did they come from?”

“I don’t know.”

“How big?”

“One’s about three feet long and a foot wide. The other one’s bigger.”

“My God . . .”

The Captain placed his hands on one of the consoles. He bent down and hung his head as the full enormity of the situation hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. But he also remembered that he didn’t have the luxury of being able to indulge his own feelings. He had a duty to uphold.

Captain Tyler stood erect, his jaw set. “Radioman?” “Mayday signal already sent, sir. Continuing to send at one-minute intervals.”

“Good. Roman, order the men into evacuation gear. I want all non-essential personnel lined up in an orderly fashion at the escape trunks. It’s going to take time to pressurize and de-pressurize the airlocks for each group. So let’s get them started now.”

“Aye aye, sir. But you know we’re at nine hundred feet. Even if they get out, the pressure out there—”

“I know. But right now, we don’t have a choice. Meanwhile, planesman, throttleman—”

"‘Sir.”

“Angle us up toward the surface. Throttle on full. Let’s try to get up there the hard way.”

“Sir, we’ve got electrical failures starting to hit all over the place. At the rate we’re taking on water, we can’t possibly make it...”

“No, but maybe we can get high enough to give us better odds for evacuation.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The Captain said a silent prayer.

The evacuation started out in every bit as orderly a fashion as the Captain had demanded. The
Kolodny
was manned by a carefully-screened, highly disciplined crew. Standard Naval emergency procedures had been laid out in detail and practiced in countless training sessions, until they were second nature. Those procedures were critical now.

Yet, as the water rose down below, the orderly evacuation dissolved into chaos. Fights broke out among the crew, as the desperate men tore at each other to be the next ones through the escape hatches. Panic turned people who had been friends only hours before into animals battling for survival.

In all the commotion, no one noticed three twelve-year-olds, two girls and one boy, standing in the shadows. The trio watched the scene with impassive expressions.

It took three hours for rescue craft to reach the USS
Kolodny’s
last known position. Out of the crew of one hundred and sixty, they found seventeen survivors.

Captain Robert Tyler was not among them.

It would take several hours more before deep-sea recovery equipment could be deployed to locate the wreck of the
Kolodny
on the ocean floor. Robot probes explored the ins and outs of the lost submarine, sending video images to the surface, where the recovery crew could puzzle over the tragedy and try to uncover some clue as to what had happened.

But as the robots made their way through the
Kolodny,
their most chilling discovery wasn’t any new revelation about what caused the submarine to sink.

It was the fact that, of the twenty-four nuclear missiles that the
Kolodny
had carried . . .

... only twenty-three were still on board.

“... calling this the worst American Naval tragedy in more than thirty years. Government sources are declining to release the names of those who were lost at this time, waiting until they can first contact the victims’ families. However, we have confirmation that the death toll has already climbed to well over one hundred, and recovery efforts are still underway.

“Investigators are still trying to deter
min
e the cause of the deadly accident. This was the scene at dawn, when combined rescue teams from ...”

Lynch sat on the sofa and slowly took a sip from his cup of black coffee. He watched the early morning newscast through narrowed eyes, digesting the information.

Lynch didn’t know about the missing Trident missile. It wasn’t the sort of tidbit that was being handed over to the media, so the newscast made no mention of it. Still, the information that was reported was more than enough to capture Lynch’s attention anyway.

Several feet away, Sarah stretched and twisted her body before the picture window that looked out over the concrete canyons of Manhattan. Her routine wasn’t quite t’ai-chi, and it wasn’t quite yoga, although it incorporated aspects of both. Sarah preferred to do this part of her exercise routine here, rather than in the room that housed their gym equipment, to take advantage of the more attractive view that the picture window afforded. Which was ironic, actually, since Sarah generally worked her way through her routine with her eyes closed, seemingly oblivious to everything around her.

It was a familiar scene, one that could be found in the apartment almost every day at about this time. Ordinarily, unless you counted Grunge’s snoring (which had been known to elicit complaints from people two blocks away), the rest of the apartment was quiet in the early hours. Most members of Gen
¹³
weren’t exactly morning people.

If truth be told, Sarah treasured this time of day. No one would describe her as shy or retiring, especially when something threatened one of her causes or principles. Yet, compared to people like Grunge or Roxy, she was positively stoic. The quiet time gave Sarah the opportunity to center herself and set the tone for the day. It was a big part of what made her seem so much older than her teenage years.
That, and boundless wisdom and maturity,
she told herself with a smile.

In a couple of hours, the apartment would erupt into a raucous din of noise, music, and conversation. This time, on the other hand, was for her.

Or maybe not just for her. Sarah was also glad for the daily time with Lynch, who routinely rose even before she did. Lynch was a man of even fewer words than Sarah, and a hard man to know. They never said much of anything to each other during this time, other than wishing each other a good morning. But the simple proximity as they went through their morning routines with no one else around had given them something in common, and built some sort of a bond between them.

Today was different, though. The peace was shattered as Kat came barrelling out of her room like a runaway freight train.

“It’s after eight! Why didn’t anyone wake me? I’ve gotta go! I’m going to be late! Where’s my left shoe?”

Kat was dressed to the nines for her day of interviews—or mostly dressed, anyway. She was still buttoning up her white, ruffled blouse as she simultaneously dashed around the apartment, gathering her things. She started to apply lipstick while she ran toward the kitchen.

Sarah continued to do her lazy stretches without opening her eyes. Lynch spent another minute or so watching the newscast, until the story changed to a feature on high-priced holiday fashions for dogs. He used the remote to switch off the television, then took another sip of his coffee.

Kat came tearing back into the room, stuffing a bagel into her mouth with one hand while she pinned a stack of resumes under the opposite arm. She juggled it all successfully as she snatched her suit jacket off the end of the sofa. But when she raised her arms to put the jacket on, she lost her grip on the stack of resumes. They drifted down like Autumn leaves to scatter on the floor.

“No!” she shrieked through a mouthful of bagel.

Kat fell to her knees and frantically started to gather up the fallen paper. She was about halfway through when Lynch said, “You can’t go.”

Kat froze for a moment, then went back to picking up resumes. “Oh, come on, Mister Lynch,” she mumbled through the bagel. “We went through all of this last night!”

“Yes, but that was last night. Things have changed.” “Changed? What kind of things could have changed?” “A nuclear submarine sank in the North Atlantic this morning.”

“Wow, that’s terrible. Anyone hurt?”

“Over one hundred dead."

“Wow.” She started tapping on the sides of the pile of paper to straighten out the stack. “And ... ?”

“ ‘And’ what?”

“ ‘And’ . . . why would it affect my job interviews?” Lynch looked surprised. “Kat, nuclear submarines

don’t just sink. They have multiple redundant back-up systems. I think it bears looking into.”

Kat thought for a moment, her head cocked to the side. “Isn’t the Navy doing that?”

“Well, yes, but..

Kat slipped the resumes into a shoulder bag. “Was there some kind of giant, radioactive dinosaur involved?” “What?!”

“Then why does the Navy need us getting in their way? It’s not like anyone’s in any immediate danger. I’m really sorry it happened, but unfortunately, the damage is already done. There’s nothing we can do about it. Aha!” Kat pointed triumphantly at her missing shoe. She reached under a bar stool with her foot and wriggled her way into it. “All that’s left now is figuring out what happened. I’m sure the Navy’s got people who are a lot better qualified than I am to do that.”

“Perhaps, but they certainly don’t have anyone better qualified to deal with the people behind it.”

“If there
are
people behind it. You’re assuming someone set this up. But how can you tell? For all we know, this could just be an accident. Like with that Russian sub that sank a while back.”

Lynch’s face tightened. “You’re missing the point, Kat. Something’s in the wind. To have you potentially inaccessible when it hits, well, it’s just not a good idea.”

Kat opened the closet and grabbed her coat. “You didn’t think it was a good idea before the submarine sank either. Forgive me for asking, but are you sure that isn’t influencing your interpretation of the whole submarine thing? Maybe just a little bit?”

Lynch inhaled sharply. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Caitlin. Longer than you’ve been alive. I’d like to think I’m a little more professional than that.”

Even in her hurry, the yawning pit in her stomach told Kat that she’d gone too far. She stopped cold, right in the middle of slipping her arm into the sleeve of her coat.

“You’re right,” she said, even though she didn’t really believe it completely. “I’m sorry.”

The two stared at each other for a moment.

“Look, how about a compromise?” Kat offered. She shrugged the coat onto her shoulders, then pulled a pen and one of the resumes out of her bag. She stepped quickly over to the bar, laid the resume face down, and started writing on the back. “Until we know for sure that anything’s going on, there isn’t much for us to do anyway, right?

“So, here—I’ll write down my schedule and all the places where I’ll be. That way, if anything does break, you can track me down, and I’ll come straight home. I promise. But meanwhile, during the time that I’d just be sitting around waiting anyhow, I can go ahead and make it to my interviews. Okay?”

Lynch didn’t say any tiling. Kat decided to take the lack of protest as grudging agreement.

She finished writing, and gave the paper a quick pat before heading for the door. “There!” she said. “Now, I really do need to run. Wish me luck, guys!” She gave them a quick wave. Then, she was gone, the door slamming closed behind her. Of course, in her haste, Kat’s super-strong slam made the entire wall shake and broke the lock again. But that wasn’t really at the top of anyone’s mind right now.

Lynch stood there, just watching the door. After a moment, he turned and stormed off into the other room.

Finally alone, Sarah opened her eyes, and picked up the small towel that lay at her feet. Neither Kat nor Lynch had sought to bring her into the argument, and that suited her just fine. She used the towel to wipe down her face and neck, draped it over her shoulders, and stretched out to melt into the comfortable sofa.

Once she was settled in, Sarah reached down to the floor and picked up one of the dozens of pornographic magazines that Bobby had strewn around the apartment as “surprises” to tempt Grunge when he woke up. She flipped idly through pages upon pages of naked women who were bending themselves at awkward angles across motorcycles and pool tables.

At another time, Sarah would probably be mortally offended at this exploitation of women. But in the quiet, and with her body feeling so relaxed, she just couldn’t muster up the energy. Instead, as she scanned the pictures, Sarah contented herself with noting the fact that she just didn’t get it. Oh, the women were attractive enough, and Sarah shared the guys’ interest in such things. But there was no ... subtlety here, no romance. Were men really that obvious?