Ultra Deep (24 page)

Resting
the
side
of
the
oar
blade
against
the
coaming
he
attempted
to
lever
the
boom
upward
,
but
he
could
not
get
a
firm
footing
.
He
changed
position
,
going
to
the
other
side
of
the
boom
and
shoving
the
oar
beneath
the
boom
.

With
his
legs
spread
wide
and
his
feet
pressed
against
the
deck
,
he
heaved
upward
.

And
the
oar
broke
.

He
looked
to
Janelle
.

She
raised
a
thumb
.

He
swam
to
her
and
tried
to
explain
with
gestures
that
he
had
radioed
for
assistance
.

She
nodded
her
understanding
.

Maybe
fifteen
minutes
of
air
left
in
each
bottle
.

Brande
slipped
out
of
his
harness
and
shut
down
the
regulator
.
Holding
his
breath
,
he
placed
the
tank
next
to
her
.

She
understood
that
she
was
to
switch
to
his
bottle
when
the
oxygen
ran
out
in
her
own
.

He
swam
for
the
surface
.

Looked
for
boats
coming
but
saw
none
.

Dove
back
to
the
bottom
,
held
her
hand
,
smiled
at
her
,
tried
to
shift
the
boom
,
then
rose
again
to
the
surface
as
his
lungs
screamed
.

Brande
dove
sixteen
times
.

On his sixteenth dive, Janelle’s eyes were lifeless.

*

The little flashbacks of futility flickered in Brandeʼs mind as he sat at the table in the lounge with Larry Emry and Ingrid Roskens, going over the search plan Emry had laid out on a big chart.

It was, rather than a circular pattern, a trapezoid, narrow on the west and wide on the east. “Because,” Emry said, “the ocean currents are moving in that direction, and the likely angle of impact, along with the rocket’s aerodynamic shape and fins, will glide it in that direction. Maybe for a hell of a long ways before it hits bottom.”

It was so damned deep.

“Tomorrow, Dane,” Emry said, “Fll put this up on the computer, so that we can shift the plan as information comes in on what the subs are finding.”

“If they find anything,” Roskens said.

“They’re bound to pinpoint some old wrecks and some terrain features that the charts don’t show,” the exploration director said. He stroked his thick mustache with his thumb. He was wearing a dark blue baseball cap with the MVU logo — protecting his bald head — and the lighter blue jumpsuit favored by team members on expedition.

Roskens was also dressed in the jumpsuit. She was assisting Emry with the search plan until she got some structural data on the rocket.

“If we could be assured,” she said, “that the rocket broke up on impact, it would be helpful.”

Brande knew she was right. A ship that breaks up and spreads debris over a mile-long stretch of the bottom was a great deal more findable than one that sinks in place. Looking for a rocket that was about thirty-one feet wide with the boosters in place and seventy feet long in a thirty-six-square-mile area of an ocean that was four miles deep was far worse than looking for a needle in a haystack.

“Even if only the boosters broke off, it would be extremely helpful,” Emry said. “It would triple our chances of finding a sonar return.”

Brande tapped the chart. “Is a search grid spacing of eight hundred meters going to be tight enough, Larry?”

“I think so, yes. It’ll depend upon the terrain, of course, but flying SARSCAN at an altitude of eight hundred feet above the bottom should give us enough overlap that if we miss it going one way, well get it on the return leg.”

“We don’t want to use Sneaky Pete simultaneously as a back-up?” Brande asked.

“I really think our best shot is with sonar. A visual sighting, unless the damned thing broke into a thousand pieces and spread out a couple miles, is going to be very, very unlikely, Dane.”

“You’re right, naturally.”

“What about the length of crew shifts, Dane?” Roskens asked. “That worries me.”

Because each descent and each ascent would require over three hours for
DepthFinder
, Brande had extended the bottom time for crews to ten hours from their normal maximum of six hours. The six hours required for a crew change took too much away from search time.

“I think our people can handle it, Ingrid. And it still gives us plenty of safety time on the battery packs.”

“We’re using up go-juice at a damned scary rate, if we’re going to maximize speed on
DepthFinder’
s motors,” Emry said.

“I don’t know of a better compromise,” Brande said.

In shallower water, SARSCAN or Sneaky Pete would be trailed below the research vessel, almost directly under it because of the weight of the cable. Twelve to fifteen thousand feet of fiber-optic cable was not only extremely heavy, but it also created a lot of drag in the water. The
Orion
would be slowed to four or five knots, greatly increasing the time required to cover the search area.

For this search, SARSCAN would be towed behind
DepthFinder
on no more than two hundred feet of cable. At maximum output on her propellers, with a heavy tow,
Depth
-
Finder
could make around twelve knots, about three times the speed the
Orion
could make towing from the surface.

The door from the corridor flew open with a bang and Dokey and Otsuka burst in.

“You tell’em,” Dokey said, headed for the galley.

“We got arms,” she said.

Brande grinned. “I knew you’d do it.”

Dokey emerged from the galley with two cans of Coke. “We could celebrate better if this chicken outfit allowed booze on board.”

“Talk to the head honcho, don’t talk to me,” Brande said. “Gargantua’s back in condition?”

“Damned right,” Dokey said. “I practiced by tearing toilet paper squares off a roll, then power-lifting a few fifty-five-gallon oil drums. I wanted to lift Kim, but she wouldn’t cooperate.”

Otsuka sipped from the Coke Dokey gave her as she sat down. “I’d have felt like Faye Wray.”

Roskens laughed.

“Thanks to both of you,” Brande said.

“Just a program problem,” Dokey said.

“One that required rewriting nearly seven hundred lines,” Otsuka added.

“I don’t know how we could have missed that earlier,” Brande said.

“Nobody thought about Okey not being able to think in metric,” she said.

Dokey hung his head until his chin was against his chest. “I’m a miserable scientist.”

Everyone agreed, and Brande excused himself to go up to the bridge, then back to the communications room. Bucky Sanders was manning the console and gave up his seat to Brande.

He called Hampstead at Pearl Harbor.

“According to what I see here,” Hampstead said, “you’re moving right along.”

“Bring me up to date, Avery.”

“The CIS has two subs working the area, Dane. The sonobuoys have identified them, and we’re recording their search pattern. I don’t think they’re finding anything.”

“How deep?”

“Our best guess is around two thousand feet.”

“I think they’re wasting their time.”

“Perhaps”

“Are they going to share their findings with us?”

“They have not, as yet,” Hampstead said. “I talked to Carl Unruh earlier…”

“Who’s he?”

“Deputy Director of Intelligence for the CIA. He’s trying to get someone to call Moscow and ask that the search data be released to us.”

Brande could imagine who ʻsomeoneʼ was. “What about information on the rocket?”

“There’s nothing new since I talked to you at noon about the computer modeling. We’re pursuing a great many channels on that.”

“Did you realize that your conversation is beginning to sound as if you’re part of the spy business, Avery?”

“God in heaven, no! I never thought I’d be sitting in a naval operations room, much less conversing with people who perform clandestine activities.” There was a hesitation as Hampstead covered the phone and spoke with someone. “Admiral Potter would like to speak with you, Dane.”

“Put him on.”

“Dr. Brande, this is David Potter.”

“How are you doing, Admiral?”

“Dr. Brande, as soon as you reach the area of operations, you are to report to Captain John Cartwright. He is aboard the
RV
Kane.
”

“Why?”

“Why? Because he is coordinating the operation locally. He will make your assignments. “

“Not mine, Admiral.”

There was a very long pause. “That is the way it is going to be, Dr. Brande. We can’t have civilians going off half-cocked.”

“I’ll be glad to keep you abreast of what I find, Admiral, but this is my business, and I’ll conduct it my way. Mr. Hampstead will be my liaison.”

“No, Dr. Brande. We will conduct this search my way. If you do not agree with that, then I will commandeer your equipment and still do it my way.”

“Let me talk to Hampstead.”

When Hampstead came back on the line, Brande said, “Avery, you better get hold of someone in power and get that asshole off my back.”

“Iʼll try the CNO.”

*

2213 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 31" NORTH, 176° 10' 33" EAST

The
Winter
Storm
was running silent at ten knots of speed. Part of the reason for the slow speed was to give the three sonar operators — all of them now on watch — a better chance of locating strange signals. One man, Paramanov, was monitoring the deep-tow sonar, while the other two men kept watch on the submarine’s standard sonars — forward-and side-looking, and took turns relieving each other.

The recorders were running, taping all of the sonar activity, which was very little. One exceptionally strong return had been recorded to the southwest, at 1,000 meters of depth, and dutifully recorded on the chart, but the consensus was that it belonged to a sunken ship, very likely of World War II vintage.

Mostly, the 116 men aboard the submarine were intensely conscious of the depth, 700 meters currently. It made them nervous and closemouthed. People spoke in whispers, when they spoke and it was not entirely necessary.

Those who were not on watch sat on their bunks, not playing chess, not playing cards and not talking. The tension was palpable throughout the submarine.