Polaris (24 page)

“I'm almost ready,” he said to her. “Go ahead. I'll be right out.” She nodded and left him to say goodbye to his small office.

He sighed and waited until he saw everyone board the plane—he had to make sure he was the last one to leave. What he was about to do might well be construed as treason, and he didn't want to implicate anyone else, although he was at peace with it. He pulled out a thick manila envelope from his desk, one that was filled with a sheaf of papers that summarized their work and a flash drive that contained all the key findings and DNA sequencing. It wasn't everything, but it was enough, a summary of the trickiest parts, and should be enough for a skilled team of doctors to replicate their results. He just could not, as a doctor and a man of science, see their entire body of work leave Eris Island on a small plane in the middle of a war zone. If what he left behind fell into enemy hands, then so be it. At least it might still cure somebody. He looked at the envelope and tried to think of a way to label it, so that anyone coming into the office would know it was worth salvaging. Finally he pulled out a red marker and wrote across it in large letters:
THE CURE
.

He left it centered neatly on the middle of his otherwise empty desk.

*   *   *

Commander Carlson called the submarine to battle stations an hour before sunset, ordering the officer of the deck to stay on the scope continuously. They weren't within sight of the island, but they were close enough to be wary of drones. If their scope was spotted, and attracted a swarm, that might be enough to alert a clever transport pilot. Carlson had positioned them right along the flight path on which the transport plane had come in, and there they sat, going in a slow clockwise circle, waiting for the sun to set. She'd checked; it would be nearly a full moon for them that night, a lucky break. And a curious decision by the Alliance, to fly any kind of important mission with visibility so good. They must be in a hurry, she thought. Or confident that no enemy subs would venture this close to Eris Island. The control room was blood red, all the regular lights turned off to aid the officer of the deck on the nighttime scope.

She saw something, a glint of the dying sunlight on a wing. She blinked, and flipped the scope to high power to confirm.

“Contact,” she said, pressing a button on the scope to mark the direction.

“It's on the bearing to the island,” said Banach, excitement in his voice.

“Raise the missile mast,” she said, and heard the switch thrown behind her.

She turned the scope and watched the mast rise up: a black, thick tube with concave oblong hatches on either end of it. It looked something like a nineteenth-century cannon, but was really just a watertight container for the three surface-to-air missiles inside. It looked wildly out of place, as if it had been bolted onto the submarine. Which, indeed, it had. Historically, submarines had always been vulnerable to attacks from the air, especially from helicopters, which turned the predator into prey. Choppers could dip sonar into the water, blanket the sea with sonobuoys, kill submarines with airdropped torpedoes and depth charges. A fast submarine went 30 knots; a slow helicopter could travel at 150 knots. Helicopters were the only natural enemy a submarine had.

At their last refit, however, their boat had been equipped with a missile launcher armed with three pencil-shaped heat-seeking missiles inside. It rose from the conning tower just like a periscope. When they pushed the firing button, the missile would take off on a bearing they selected, looking for the infrared signature of anything that was generating heat. Ideally, the engine of an enemy aircraft. The system was originally designed to be a defensive weapon, to use in a counterattack against an ASW helicopter.
But, what the hell,
thought Carlson. If there's a plane full of Alliance VIPs, she was going to shoot it down.
You don't get medals for playing defense.

The weapon was useless against drones—their little solar engines didn't generate enough heat to register in the missile's homing mechanism. And the launcher came with only three missiles, so even if it did score a hit against a drone, it would soon run empty as the swarm came down on them. Once, Carlson had been part of a group that tested a variety of defenses against an earlier generation of drones. They tried every projectile, laser, and missile that Typhon could come up with. The most effective thing, to her amusement, was the most primitive: a deck-mounted Gatling gun. Hundreds of dumb bullets flying through the air actually did well against a few drones, shredding them to pieces. But the problem, everyone in the fleet knew, wasn't one drone. Or even three drones. The problem was a dozen drones, or fifty drones, and all their friends.

“Visual?” asked Banach.

“Yes,” said Carlson. “Something.” She could just see it, a reflection of sunlight on the wing. “Ready the launcher.”

The ugly concave doors on each end of the missile mast flipped open, and she could feel the dull
thunk
in the handles of the periscope. The launcher swung toward the bearing she was facing. It was getting dark fast; she hoped she would be able to see the target well enough to make the call. While every OOD had fired dozens of missiles in the simulator, they had fired only one real missile, on the range. She remembered the satisfying blast of flame from the launcher, the way the missile seemed to dip dangerously close to the ocean as it took off, the way it screamed toward the target on a bright, sharp triangle of fire. They had surfaced immediately after, and they could still smell the sharp tang of rocket fuel in the air.

She blinked to clear her vision. The control room was silent as they waited for her command. Finally, the target came close enough that she could make out the cockpit. A cockpit with no windows.

“Drone,” she said, disappointment in her voice.

“Shit,” said Banach.

“Lowering number one scope,” she said, turning the ring. “Lower the missile mast.” She kept her hands up on the ring as it went down, stretched her back and blinked her eyes. “We'll go back up in five minutes,” she said. “After he passes. We'll keep looking. All night if we have to. Let's get some tea up here. Sooner or later, we'll get our chance.”

*   *   *

The transport plane took off ten minutes after sunset. Only the drones remained on Eris, taking off and landing, ingesting their bombs and dancing for each other. It was dark onboard, but still Liston and Manakas didn't hold hands, or even sit next to each other. They sat across from each other and pretended like nothing was wrong.

Eris disappeared immediately as they took off; within seconds it was all water, in every direction. It was a long flight to the mainland, and Manakas vowed not to look at his watch at least for the first few hours. They'd chosen the small, slow plane deliberately, he knew, to mimic the movement of a drone to anyone who might spot them on radar. But up in the air, the plane felt slow and vulnerable. It rumbled, but none of the research team spoke after the first few minutes. A few fell asleep immediately, and Manakas envied them.

He stared out his window. Moonlight was glinting on the surface of the ocean, illuminating the interior of the plane with a dim, blue glow. They were flying into a vast nothingness, a tiny pod of doctors who had studied the flu a thousand miles from home.
Home.
He thought about what that even meant, what must have changed since he'd left. What had changed in him.

Something caught his eye as he looked out the window; a flash on the surface. It was easy to see in the darkness. He saw two flashes, diverging, then realized that one of them was just a reflection on the ocean surface. His heart sank as he knew instantly what it meant. Thank god he'd left that envelope; he could take some solace in that. At least their work wouldn't be in vain. The flash focused into a V-shaped jet of pure white flame, propelling a missile toward them at the speed of sound.

Manakas turned and looked at Dr. Liston across the aisle, wanting her face to be the last thing he saw before he died. She saw the pure sadness in his eyes and forced a smile, trying to make him feel better.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Carlson surfaced her submarine among the wreckage, after verifying that no drones were in the immediate area. She kept the ship rigged for dive and took a minimum number of the crew topside, in case they needed to submerge quickly. But she wanted to see the wreckage herself, verify the kill, and pick up anything that would make for useful intelligence. Or a good trophy.

She climbed onto the main deck while Banach drove the ship from the control room; she wouldn't even put anybody on the bridge, wanted to be able to submerge quickly if they had to. Among her team topside were three of the marines, including their sergeant. One of them held a long, curved hook, exactly like those used by lifeguards, to pull any compliant survivors from the sea to be interrogated. The others carried the short carbines that they so loved, in the unlikely event that a survivor wanted to fight to the end.

But, as she expected, no one had survived. Only tiny traces of the plane remained, a few thin seat cushions floating in the water, some empty plastic bottles, a tire from the landing gear. They steered silently among it, the flashlights from the commandos illuminating the detritus.

“Confirmed kill,” she said, almost to herself.

“I wonder what they were doing,” said the sergeant.

Carlson shrugged. “Me, too. Not delivering the mail.”

She heard a slight scraping along the hull beneath her feet. One of the commandos shined his light on it.

“I don't see anything,” he said.

She squinted. It was almost impossible to see, but she could hear it. Then she saw it; a transparent plastic container, bobbing at the waterline.

“There!” she said. She sensed it was important. Two of the marines got down on their bellies and tried to reach it, but it was impossible. The sergeant tried with the big metal hook, but there was nothing to grip on the plastic container.

Suddenly, the radio on her belt clicked to life. “Drone,” said Banach from the control room. “Port beam.”

Shit. “How far out?” she said.

“Maybe ten minutes,” said Banach. “Heading straight for us.”

“Shall we secure, Captain?” asked the sergeant.

“No!” she said. “Get that box!” He resumed frantically batting at it with his hook, but it was futile.

“Looks like four drones in all,” said Banach on the radio. “In attack formation.”

Carlson looked at the sergeant. “Get that box,” she said again.

Without a word, he handed her the hook, nodded, and dived off the side of the submarine.

“What the hell?” said Banach from control. He'd heard the splash. “Do we have a man overboard?”

The sergeant grasped the floating container with both hands and kicked himself over to the side of the sub. Carlson lowered the hook around him, so it grabbed him beneath his arms, just as designed. The two other commandos got behind her and helped pull him up, plastic container in hand.

“Visual on drones!” said Banach. He had the 4x magnification of the scope on his side; they still couldn't see or hear them topside, but Banach's visual meant they were very close. “Get below!”

The commandos ran for the hatch, plastic crate in hand. Carlson followed them, her eyes to the dark sky.

At the hatch, they tried to go below, but the crate wouldn't fit.

“You've got to be shitting me,” she said. The commandos were frantically turning the crate, trying to find an angle at which the rectangular container would fit down the round hatch.

She could hear the drones.

“Move!” she said, stepping between the commandos. She tore the lid off the sealed crate, threw it into the sea, and dumped the contents of the container into the submarine. A torrent of paper poured down the hatch.

“Down, down, down!” she yelled. The first drone was in sight now. The marines jumped down the ladder, landing and slipping on the pile of Alliance paperwork. Going last, she slid down two rungs of the ladder, and slammed the hatch behind her.

Without waiting for her order, Banach performed an emergency dive. Water poured around the hatch as she spun the locking ring, sealing the ship shut. They had just made it. Banach, she knew, would have submerged with them still topside if that's what he needed to do to save the ship. She had trained him that way.

After a few minutes, Banach made his way aft, wild eyed. She saw him do a quick count of everyone before he met her eyes with relief.

“Disappointed?” she said. “You almost got to take command.”

He nodded. “Maybe next time, Captain.”

“Any damage from the drones?”

“We heard the lead drone drop its bomb. Hit the surface of the water and sank without detonating.”

“Good,” she said, the adrenaline rush subsiding. She held her arms out, indicating the pile of paper at her feet. “Get somebody down here. We need to start scanning this shit.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The three original members of the team, Hamlin, Strack, and Harkness, were all sitting at their desks awaiting word about the flight to Eris Island.

Harkness had the propaganda machine ready, waiting to unleash it the moment the plane touched down safely. He passed the time by nervously watching the ever-changing word clouds on his monitors as they told him what people were saying about the flu and the Alliance, and no doubt fantasizing about how the displays would change when the cure was announced. Strack nervously shuffled papers at his desk, the latest mortality reports, also no doubt hoping that his daily diet of statistics was about to change radically.

As for Pete, he busied himself with rough calculations using approximate speeds of transport planes. He didn't know the exact plane or its speed, of course, but had a feeling it might be trying to approximate a drone, meaning it would travel very slowly—at least until it was a safe distance away, or closer to areas that the Alliance controlled. He kept adding variables to the equation, wind speed and rates of fuel consumption for a plane fully loaded with passengers, but soon the results all started converging on a single number. It was a complicated problem but allowed Pete to use his extensive knowledge of military aircraft, and gave him a comforting refuge to occupy himself. His slowest estimate had the plane touching down on US soil in twelve hours. The fastest: six.