Survivalist - 18 - The Struggle (7 page)

Kulienkov cleared his throat. He was a skinny man, the ravages of adolescence still visible in a few pockmarks on his cheeks and forehead, shoulders hunched beneath his lab coat as he bent over something that looked like a combination of a gun and a radio set at the side of a huge fish tank. Had signals been crossed and was Kulienkov showing him something to do with the advancements in particle beam weaponry? “This came about by accident, Comrade Marshal,” Kulienkov began. “And without Comrade Doctor Alexsova’s policy of openness it would never have been possible.” He looked over his shoulder and smiled at her, his glasses slipping a little, dark hair in his eyes. Did Kulienkov have a crush on his superior?

Doctor Alexsova smiled back at him. “Thank you, Kulienkov.”

Kulienkov began to speak again. “I knew, of course, that there was an important project concerning communications under the sea. I knew that various frequency ranges were being tried and that conventional laser systems could be utilized but only as part of an already established system of links. So, I asked myself how it might be if a conventional laser were to ride on a particle beam as a carrier? The heat generated by the particle beam would evaporate the water surrounding it and the laser beam would not be dispersed any more in the water than it would be in the

air. So, I tried it. Here it is.”

The buzzing sound Antonovitch had been aware of for several seconds suddenly became louder. Involuntarily, he stepped back across the floor of the laboratory, away from the now-glowing apparatus. “It was simple once the theory was developed, really. This is simply a much modified form of the plasma energized particle beam system developed for armored vehicles.”

Antonovitch looked at Doctor Alexsova. “A particle beam weapon that does not require something the size of a mountain for its energy source?”

She smiled, said nothing. Kulienkov was still talking.”… is merely a matter of firing it—at reduced charge levels of course—and aiming the laser beam wherever one wishes to. Like this.” Kulienkov began whispering into a microphone as he flipped a switch.

And there was a loud buzzing sound.

The water along the center of the tank seemed to instantly boil—but in a straight line. Steam rose from the tank in a huge cloud. At the far end of the tank was a conventional-seeming speaker. From it came the voice of Kulienkov, amplified to stentorian volume. “… to his ability, to each according to his needs.”

Marx.

But Antonovitch was reminded more of Buck Rogers.

“Now that we will be able to communicate through the water successfully, it will be possible to recontact Soviet forces under the sea. The technological breakthroughs which have so fortuitously come about have enabled us to pursue the alliance and, if necessary, should no alliance result, will enable us to vanquish these forces should such become necessary.” The Comrade Chairman smoked a cigarette, leaned back in Doctor Alexsova’s chair, placed his feet on her desk. Had he been smoking a fat cigar, he would have made the perfect caricature of the rich Capitalist, Antonovitch thought.

Doctor Alexsova had been excluded from this meeting, and only the two of them sat in the soundproof office. Antonovitch could hear the sucking sounds as the Comrade Chairman would inhale on his cigarette, hear them clearly with the almost total absence of background noise. Except for the hiss of air through two air-conditioning vents, there was no noise except for their breathing and the sounds from the Comrade Chairman’s cigarette. The sucking sound alternated with a faint crackling sound, the tobacco burning.

The Comrade Chairman continued speaking. “I am reminded of the so-called ‘SETF programs I have read of.”

“Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence,” Antonovitch said without thinking.

“Yes, Comrade Marshal,” as if to say, remember I am the Comrade Chairman and I should not be interrupted. “These SETI programs fired radio signals into the void of the cosmos. We will fire signals into the void of the deep.” Antonovitch didn’t really consider the ocean a void, in fact just the opposite, but refrained from correcting the Comrade Chairman. “And, since we know the approximate area in which to search, it should be a matter of days, a few weeks at the most before contact is made.”

“Forgive me, Comrade Chairman, but what if our Soviet brothers beneath the ocean’s surface do not choose to respond?’

“The message,” the Comrade Chairman smiled,” will be such that they will have no choice. I intend to inform them that there is a substantial possibility that, if they do not act at once, the Germans, who are allies of our other enemies, will launch a nuclear missile which will so totally destroy the atmosphere that their precious ocean will be vaporized around them.”

Antonovitch leaned forward, sitting at the edge of his chair. “But, Comrade Chairman—”

“I am merely extrapolating from the facts. Your own high altitude surveillance confirms that it is likely the Germans are perfecting a nuclear warhead to possibly use against us. You must admit,” and his drooping, wrinkled face for once smiled, “they will be intrigued by this message, our Soviet brothers. Hmm?”

“Yes, Comrade Chairman,” Antonovitch nodded.

“So. If we can forge an alliance, so be it. If not, we shall destroy^ them with our particle beam weapons.

Once they respond, we shall know their exact location beneath the ocean surface, each signal computer monitored, of course.” And he smiled again, stubbing out his cigarette as he shifted his feet from the corner of the desk and looked Antonovitch in the eye. “We have become invincible, Comrade Marshal.” “Yes—invincible.”

The composite video display which dominated the forward bulkhead was set for forward view and revealed shoaling some five hundred yards ahead of the Reagan along its present course. Sebastian’s long fingers were splayed across the illuminated plotting board which dominated the control station.

“Navigation—ten degrees left rudder and hold it there.”

Lieutenant Junior Grade Lureen Bowman responded “shifting to ten degrees left rudder, Captain.”

Darkwood swung his chair right. “Communications—are you picking up anything, Lieutenant?”

“Just some low frequency noise, Captain. It could be electronic stuff that’s out of tune and crept into the wrong bands. I can’t make anything out of it at all, sir.”

“Very good, Lieutenant Mott. Advise me if there’s any change.”

“Aye, sir.”

Darkwood rotated his chair to face forward again, the shoaling more pronounced now on the video display.

“Bring that rudder amidships again, Navigator.” He refused to call a woman “Helmsman” or, worse

still, “Helmsperson.”

Sebastian spoke. “Captain, I’d advise blowing fifteen percent air to the starboard tanks.”

Darkwood’s eyes flickered from the video screen to T.J. Sebastian’s face. “Order the blow, Mr. Sebastian, and alert the crew we’ll be running out of trim.”

“Aye, Captain, blowing fifteen percent negative buoyance starboard tanks.” Sebastian reached for his microphone, speaking into it. “Now hear this. This is the First Officer speaking. Until further notice, secure to run fifteen percent off trim to port.” Sebastian put down the microphone and ordered Lieutenant Bowman, “Navigation. Blow fifteen percent air to starboard tanks and hold.” Sebastian turned to the Engineering Station saying, “Commander Hartnett, please advise me should there be any change in reactor status.”

Hartnett nodded, saying, “I will advise you, Mr. Sebastian.”

Darkwood’s command chair was gyroscopically balanced, and automatically adjusted fifteen degrees of attitude toward starboard. He had been to Iwo Jima once before for one of the few surface survival classes, this more years ago than he had wanted to remember when he had been a student at the Naval Academy. He had been one of five cadets allowed to stand on the bridge while the skipper of the submarine which had brought them there navigated the inlet. There were charts of course which showed the depths and bottom contours but it was a matter of pride in the submarine service that you didn’t scrape the bottom with your hull. Plus, since this was an unauthorized, unannounced visit to the island, there was always the possibility that some overzealous person working with the island defenses might shoot first and ask questions afterward. “Lieutenant Mott.”

“Aye, Captain?”

“Send this for me on all standard defense frequencies using the Sigma Three Code. Compliments to Colonel P.Q. Armbruster, Commanding. This is the United States attack submarine Ronald Wilson Reagan. We are entering through the inlet without orders because of an emergency security situation. We will surface at the approximate center of the lagoon—” and he checked the face of the dual display Steinmetz on his left wrist. “We will surface at the approximate center of the lagoon at precisely 0900 hours. I anticipate he will have security personnel in the vicinity to verify identification. Signed Darkwood, Captain, Commanding U.S.S. Reagan. If you got it all, there’s no need to read it back, Andy.”

“Aye, sir. I got it.”

“Send at once, Lieutenant.” And Darkwood turned away. The video display’s forward view revealed that the shoaling was receding to starboard. “Mr. Sebastian. Correct this uncomfortable list to port. I think we’re safe enough now if we surface to periscope depth and resume normal speed while keeping a good eye on the bottom.”

“Aye, Captain. Navigation. Equalize the blow. Bring us up to periscope depth and adjust present speed to all ahead two-thirds.”

“Aye, Mr. Sebastian. Adjusting to periscope depth.”

“Maintain present course, Mr. Sebastian—unless you see fit to do otherwise.”

“Aye, Captain. Maintaining present course and speed.” Sebastian picked up his microphone again. “This is the First Officer speaking. Secure from the previously mentioned navigational correction.”

Jason Darkwood just looked at his First Officer as he stood. He’d never heard one like that before. He moved aft, Seaman First Class Tagachi at the

periscope controls. “Morris, run her up for me when we reach periscope depth.”

“Aye, Captain. We gonna breathe real air, Captain?”

“Shore leave? If we have the time, I suppose. But I understand breathing real air can be hazardous to your health. I had a cough for days afterward the last time I did.”

“Really, sir?”

“Right,” Darkwood grinned, clapping Tagachi on the shoulder, laughing.

Navigation announced periscope depth, Sebastian echoing it, Morris Tagachi activating the periscope controls.

Darkwood stepped to the periscope, the handles lowering. Each time he used either this or the attack periscope, he unfailingly thought of the centuries-old movies he had seen of the early days of submarining. The slightly grizzled, stubble-faced captain ordered, “Up periscope!” and snapped down the handles from the dully gleaming brass tube, his face sweating as he crouched to peer through the tube.

With the periscope aboard the Reagan, there was no need to crouch because they were adjustable to various height levels instantly. There was no reason to sweat unless one was working out in the gymnasium (granted, it wasn’t that large). Wearing a beard as long as it was in Regs was acceptable, but never stubble. He’d always secretly wondered how the Navy Department expected someone to grow a beard within Regs without growing through the stubble stage first.

He worked the buttons for focus as he looked into the periscope, surveying the lagoon which they were now entering. He felt almost like Captain Nemo returning to the island that was the seat of his anguish, but on this island were fellow officers and men in the service of Mid-Wake, fellow Americans.

And—

“Sebastian! Battle Stations! Get us out of here! Now! Down periscope!”

Darkwood pushed past Seaman First Tagachi, sprinting toward the Command Chair, taking the three steps down to the Control and Navigation level in a jump, the Reagan already beginning to rock under him the instant Sebastian ordered, “Now hear this. Now hear this. Battle stations. I repeat, Battle Stations. This is not a drill.” The Klaxon sounded. Sebastian threw down the microphone, ordering, “Navigator, hard right rudder. All back. Blow air. Engineering—reactor status. Navigator—bring her about—faster. Engineering—that reactor status.”

Saul Hartnett sang out, “Both port and starboard reactors on line and running smooth, Mr. Sebastian.”

Darkwood stared at the video display as though he were looking through some huge window. On the beach, at the far side of the lagoon, he had seen Russian troops but no sign of their submarine, and that was what frightened him. Darkwood called back, “Navigator—are we about yet?”

“We’re coming about now, Captain, in five… four… three … two… one … We are about, Captain.”

“Rudder amidships, bring us to half flank speed.” Darkwood moved to the illuminated plotting table beside Sebastian. “Communications—bring up aft projection on the screen.”

“Aye, Captain—you have aft projection.”

Darkwood turned toward the screen, the picture changed instantly. There was nothing suspicious within visual range. “Communications—give me split screen imaging fore and aft.”

“Split screen imaging now, Captain, as indicated.”

The video display was now evenly divided between

fore and aft views and, to prevent a panicked Captain from making some critical mistake, the words “fore” and “aft” flashed on and off on their appropriate screens. Darkwood focused his attention on the illuminated plotting board. The Reagan was into the inlet channel. Sebastian had done his work well and so had the Navigator, Lureen Bowman. Darkwood made a mental note to mention this in the log. Without looking up, he called to Saul Hartnett. “Engineering— be ready for overdrive as soon as we clear the channel.”

“Aye, Captain,” Hartnett sang back.

They were entering the portion of the channel where the shoaling had been. “Navigation—give me a slow blow to seventy percent negative buoyancy on portside tanks and eighty-five percent on starboard proportionately, and be ready to terminate the blow on my signal.”

“Aye, Captain, starting the blow now.”