Ultra Deep (32 page)

Brande appreciated Thomas’s immediate decision. He glanced at Dokey, standing next to him in the red-glow of the instrument panel, and noted the affirmative bobbing of the man’s head. Dokey was wearing a black sweatshirt stamped with a big red
YES!
In mid-afternoon, he had entered into direct graphics combat with the
NO!
girls.

Turning slightly to his left, Brande also appreciated the form of Thomas leaning over the chart table. She was wearing white jeans and a green-and-white-striped polo shirt. It was similar to outfits he had seen her in a hundred times. It was also completely different. Now he was aware of the fullness of her breasts, the breadth of her hips, the smooth length of her legs. He could feel the throb of the pulse in her smooth throat. He liked the way her hair fell forward as she leaned over the table. The planes of her cheeks were soft in the red light, and her eyes were lost in shadow and determination.

Brande turned back to the windshield.

Not good, he thought.

He had been so damned careful to keep his relationships with people in the company at arm’s length. Sven Henning Brande had always said, “You don’t screw around with the help.”

Not that Sven Henning’s warning had meant much to a seventeen-year-old chasing the girls on the harvesting crews.

But with Kaylene Rae Thomas, other than the name, there were other little mannerisms, traits that resurrected the memory of Janelle Kay. It was a memory he did not want to lose or allow to blur. His memory of Janelle was what drove him to do the things he did. If he had had an
Atlas
ROV available, she would not have died.

That was all changed, now.

Lack of willpower? Brande was not certain. The desire had been there, certainly. For Rae, too. And yet, he well knew he had not given all of himself, and he did not think that she had, either. There was a resistance between them that prevented full revelation. 

As soon as they had come on the bridge, he was aware of a slight increase in the formality between them when in front of others. She, and he, were determined to not let the sudden new intimacy change their professional approaches. And in the determination, lost the battle.

Dokey had looked him directly in the eyes and asked, “Have a good nap, Chief?”

“Yeah, Okey, I did.”

“Iʼm so glad.”

Brande spun around and went back to the radio shack, leaning against the jamb. “What’s the latest, Paco?”

The radio man turned in his chair and looked up at him. “The Navy types seem to think she’s stabilized,
jefe
. She’s a thousand feet down, with her emergency antenna deployed to the surface. But her machinery room is flooded, and she can’t move, and she can’t surface.”

“How about rescue craft?”

“The
Bronstein
is on the way.”

“Any deep divers?”

“I’m pretty sure I heard CINCPAC divert the
RV
Bartlett
.ˮ

“
Bartlettʼs
only got sonar and visual ROVs on board, last I heard,” Dokey said, coming up behind Brande. “And the
Kaneʼs
way down south, according to Larry’s chart.
Kaneʼs
got a submersible that could mate with the sub’s hatches, but so far, CINCPAC hasn’t ordered her in.”

“We’re the best bet, then,” Brande said.

“Kaylene already knew that,” Dokey told him.

Brande and Dokey moved over to the chart table. Thomas looked across the table at him, but her eyes were opaque and unreadable in the red glow of the fixture attached to the overhead.

“Larry,” he asked Emry, “have you talked to Ingrid?”

“Yes,” he said. His bald head glowed with fire. “She’s got all the data up on a machine in the lab. What we know is that the reactor’s shut down, and they’re maintaining on batteries. The machinery room is totally flooded, and they’ve lost almost all of their operating systems. The lower level of the engine room is also flooded, but the last report says there’s no more water coming in.”

“Predictions?”

“Based on just the data available, Ingrid thinks they’ll lose about fifty feet an hour for maybe ten hours. Then the pressures may open up the rupture some more”

“Crew?”

“They reported to CINCPAC that everyone’s accounted for. Two minor injuries. There are thirty-seven people aft in the main engine room and sixty-three more forward of the reactor space.”

“They’re not going to attempt survival suits, are they?” Dokey asked.

In some cases, sub crews could escape a stricken vessel by climbing into the airlock, flooding the lock, opening the outer hatch, and rising to the surface.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Emry said. “It’s just too damned deep. And they don’t have the air reserves to blow out the airlock forty times.”

“Coming up as fast as they would have to,” Thomas said, “all that would reach the surface would be dead bodies.” She sounded pretty damned somber to Brande.

He turned to Dokey. “You’re thinking?”

“I’m thinking that, even if we could mate
DepthFinder
to a hatch, we could only transport three, maybe four, people on each dive. That’s twenty-five-plus trips, Chief. What we need here is
Voyager.
”

“So we have to do it a different way. Are the sub’s diving planes operable, Larry?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll have to check.”

“Don’t ask them now. Let’s stay off the air.”

“What if CINCPAC asks for us?”

“I’ll handle that. Any other queries, Paco and Bucky just say, ‘we’re on track, on schedule.’”

“Our track, our schedule, not the Navy’s?” Thomas asked.

“That’s right, darlin’,” Sorenson said.

“But the orders…”

“Confiscated my ship; they can’t draft my mind,” Brande finished for her.

“What the hell they going to do about it, anyway? Shoot us out of the water?” Dokey asked.

“You might not have mentioned that possibility,” Sorenson said. “You ever see a navy get mad?”

“Let’s go below and join Ingrid and her computer, see what the alternatives are,” Brande said.

“Limited, I think,” Emry told them.

They filed down the companionway to the main deck, Brande trailing.

He could not resist reaching out and touching Rae Thomas on the side of the neck.

She looked back at him.

Smiled.

But it was a grim smile.

*

0320 HOURS LOCAL, WASHINGTON, DC

The Situation Room was crowded with important people now. They had begun arriving as soon as word about the
Los
Angeles
’s plight had gotten out.

The President’s face was deeply creased with concern, and his eyes looked extremely tired.

The Director of the DIA, Gen. Harley Wiggins, said, “If we take the
Orion
off her mission and send her to help the sub, we could lose twelve or eighteen hours. That’s a difference that might affect history.”

The Chief of Naval Operations said, “I know I’m biased, Harley, but those are my people. If we’ve got a chance to save them, I say we take the chance.”

The President looked at Unruh. “Where’s Mark?”

“On the way, sir.”

“You’re speaking for him? You’ve been on top of this from the beginning, Mr. Unruh. What do you think?”

Vienna suddenly looked damned good. Unruh tried to balance the pros and the cons, but kept seeing mind-pictures of Machiavelli and Locke and Kant. He remembered he had hated philosophy. He saw the unnamed faces of 143 Commonwealth sailors, now residents of the deep.

He saw the unnamed faces of a similar number of American submariners.

He saw diseased fish, shrimp, lobsters resting on restaurant platters.

Cancerous, tumor-filled.

Dead seagulls, mutant pelicans.

Islanders, tourists, fishermen dying.

“I guess, Mr. President, I would say that the
Orion
has a more important mission just now.”

The President asked for more opinions from around the room, particular to inquire of Senate and House armed forces and intelligence committee members who were present.

He mulled it over for three minutes.

Then said, “Admiral Delecourt, order CINCPAC to tell the
Orion
to continue toward her objective. That is our first priority.”

*

2032 HOURS LOCAL, PEARL HARBOR NAVAL BASE, HAWAII

Avery Hampstead had decided hours before that he did not like his job.

Now he detested it.

When Brande finally came on the line, Hampstead said, “Good evening, Dane.”

“Are you sure, Avery? It’s been a bad day for the U.S. Navy.”

“No, as a matter of fact, it’s a rotten evening.”

“You’re passing on bad news?”

“I have orders for you from Admiral Potter.”

“Just what I wanted to hear about. Look, Avery, we’re going hell-bent for the
Los
Angeles
. We’ll be there in about six hours”

“No” Hampstead said.

“No? What the hell, no?”

“You’re to continue to the impact site.”

“Fuck that.”

“The orders come from the White House, Dane. There’s no way I can affect a change in them.”

“They’re going to let a hundred and ten men die?”

“There’s more at stake, Dane. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy decision. I know it wasn’t.” Hampstead was glad he was a few thousand miles away from where those kinds of decisions were determined.

“We’ve got time, Avery. Three days. It starts ticking on the tenth.”

“If the nuke people are correct.” Hampstead looked across the table at Harlan Ackerman of the NRC, who did not want to meet his eyes.

“And up to eleven days,” Brande added.

“If the nuke people are correct, I repeat. The President does not wish to play with the clock, Dane.”

“The President? Or his goddamned committee?” Brande asked.

“We’re doing what’s expected of us. That’s all we can do.”

“Sure.”

“Dane, I need to know your plans.”

“We’re on track, on schedule.”

September 7

Chapter Thirteen

0106 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 39" NORTH, 176° 10' 52" EAST

The
Bronstein
had reported the
Orionʼs
position to CINCPAC as soon as the frigate had positively identified her on radar.

In compliance with Brandeʼs standing order, Paco Sanchez and Bucky Sanders had replied, “On track, on schedule,” every time CINCPAC yelled at them over the radio.

The satellite-linked telephone was not being answered. Brande just figured he would have to argue with Hampstead, and he did not have time for arguments.

The fantail of the research vessel was ablaze with lights, alive with activity. The team members had been double-checking and preparing
DepthFinder
for the past four hours. The sheath below the bow had been exchanged for a larger one, and
Atlas
was secured in place.

Brande stood alongside the submersible with Dokey, Dankelov and Thomas. He patted his baby on her flank.

“How come, when you were president, you still got to dive?” Thomas asked.

She had been complaining that Brande would not let her make the dive. He had selected Dokey and Dankelov for his crew members.

“Because the chairman of the board was compassionate back then,” Brande told her. “He’s less compassionate now, and he’s made up a new rule.”

The withering look she gave him almost erased the pleasant memory of their mid-afternoon tryst. She could not be certain whether or not he was protecting her, favoring her, or picking on her.

“I need you up here, Rae. You’ll have to run interference with the Navy.”

“If we get that far,” Dokey said. “Looky here.”

From about a mile away, a ship was bearing down on them, her searchlights probing the dark.

“That’ll be the
Bronstein
” Brande said. “Rae, you know what to do.”

“Stand in the direct line of fire?”

“They don’t shoot women,” Dokey said.

“They don’t shoot beautiful women, anyway,” Brande clarified.

She lost some of the heat in her eyes. He thought about kissing her, but figured that would be a bad move. The fire would come back.

Brande turned and scrambled up the aluminum steps of the scaffolding parked next to the submersible. He stepped aboard the submersible as Dokey and Dankelov followed him. The three of them were wearing their customary jumpsuits and woolen socks. They each carried sweaters. Dankelov’s squat figure appeared almost too bulky to pass through the hatch, and, in fact, it was a tight fit.

The PA system blared with Connie Alvarez-Sorenson’s voice as the Russian forced his way down the hatch: “
DepthFinder
, we’ve got the strobe light on the sub’s emergency antenna buoy. ETA five minutes.”

Brande waved in the direction of the bridge, then climbed over the sail. Dokey disappeared down the hatch.

Looking to the winch operator located on the port side, Brande signaled for release and lift.

The deck crew released the tie-downs, the winch operator took up the slack in the lift cable, then eased off the brake for the line attached to the bow.

DepthFinder
began to back off the stern of her mother ship.

When she reached the limit of rearward travel, the bow cable was detached and the operator raised her a foot off the deck. Two men with a nylon line run through a bow cleat kept her from swinging sideways.

The yoke slowly moved rearward, taking the submersible with it.

The throb of
Orion’s
diesels died away as the antenna buoy came up on the port side. It was bobbing high and hard in the rough seas. Wave peaks were at about nine feet, Brande guessed.

The RV was pitching in the waves, but steadied as Sorenson deployed the cycloidal propellers.

The
Bronstein
arrived.

Slowing as she moved alongside, maintaining a separation of fifty feet, the frigate matched their speed, and a figure on the bridge wing raised a loud hailer and called down to them, “
Orion
, I have a message for you from CINCPAC!”

Rae Thomas raised her own loud hailer and replied, à la Joan Rivers, “Can we talk?”

“Who are you?” the figure asked.

“President and CEO of Marine Visions.”

“Ah, damn!”

Brande gave the winch operator a thumbs-down, and the
DepthFinder
settled into the sea, slapped from below by wave tops, bucking hard against the waves running between the twin hulls.

*

0112 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 11" NORTH, 176° 10' 23" EAST

Gen. Dmitri Oberstev and Capt. Leonid Talebov stood together on the fantail of the
Timofey
Olʼyantsev
and watched as Pyotr Rastonov and Gennadi Drozdov clambered into the submersible
Sea
Lion
. Under the bright floodlights, the scene appeared surreal.

Lt. Col. Janos Sodur waited in the background shadows, his arms wrapped around his shoulders, fighting the chill night wind.

A few miles to the north were the running lights of several ships, probably civilian ships headed toward the area of the sinking submarine. Sightseers and tragedy lovers. Oberstev felt nothing but contempt for them.

The submersible cradled on the stern deck was not, Oberstev felt certain, as pretty as the one the Americans would have. Americans were so devoted to appearances, while Russian sensibilities were more concerned with function.

The Russian citizen had never had to worry about tailfins going out of style.

Conversely, he was forced to admit, the majority of Russians had never owned an automobile, stylish or not.

The
Sea
Lion
was a light-gray rectangular box with rounded corners. The box encapsulated the pressure hull and was adorned with projecting antennas, sonar modules and angled propulsion propellers. In the wire basket below the blunt snout of the submersible was the small remotely operated vehicle called
Seeker
by Gennadi Drozdov.

The ROV was almost a miniature reproduction of the submersible, gray and flat and rectangular, but affixed with a manipulator arm, cameras and lights. It was truly remotely operated, for there was no cable to attach it to the
Sea
Lion
. The acoustic control system, called Loudspeaker, which Oberstev did not fully understand, allowed the ROV to operate up to a mile away from its controller.

There were some drawbacks. One ROV had gotten lost, literally. In the blackness of the depths, the position of a
Seeker
exploring a cavern had been lost to the mother ship’s sonar. While depth, altitude above bottom, and compass heading were telemetrically transmitted to the controller from the ROV, the controller — who saw on his screen what the ROV saw — became disoriented. He raced the ROV about, seeking a way out of the cave, until the batteries depleted, and it sank to the bottom. Somewhere.

Oberstev watched as the hatch was sealed and the
Sea
Lion
raised from the deck by the crane.

Talebov, a taciturn man anyway, was even more silent this morning. He and Oberstev had argued a few hours earlier about the sinking American submarine. Leonid Talebov had insisted that it was the mariner’s duty to aid a stricken vessel. Oberstev’s position was that they had a higher duty. And Oberstev was supported by Admiral Orlov and Chairman Yevgeni.

As the submersible swung out over the side of the ship, Oberstev and Talebov, Sodur trailing behind, walked back toward the superstructure. They would monitor the mission from the combat information center.

“I am optimistic, Captain Talebov. Far more so this morning.”

“I wish that I shared your mood, General.”

“We have the charts the Americans sent to us. We have the updated sonar contacts discovered by the
Winter
Storm
. The search narrows, Captain.”

“You should not trust the American charts,” Sodur interrupted. “They intentionally mislead us so that they can steal our prize.”

Oberstev looked out at the sea, huge waves that crashed against the hull, spewing white foam, and causing the massive ship to heel and dive.

He looked back at
Pod
-
Palcovnik
Sodur and asked, “How would you like to go for a swim, Colonel?”

*

0118 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 39" NORTH, 176° 10' 52" EAST

Thomas had boarded the
Bronstein
by way of a breeches buoy catapulted from the frigate to the research vessel.

She was wearing long johns under her jumpsuit and a blue parka with the MVU logo, but the bouncing breeches buoy had dipped her to within a few feet of the surface, and she had been drenched from the knees down. She shivered as she stood on the bridge with Captain Dewey, a refined black man who wore thin gold-rimmed glasses. There was also some reporter named Overton present.

“Captain, the
Los
Angeles
is already down fourteen hundred feet! With every minute we delay, it goes deeper.”

“Our job, Miss Thomas, is to stand by for possible survivors.”

“There aren’t going to be any goddamned survivors if you don’t act!”

“Miss Thomas, I take my orders from CINCPAC, just as you are supposed to do. I admit that I don’t know what sanctions will be taken against you, but I am certain there will be sanctions if you do not get under way immediately. Your ship is under command of Admiral Potter.”

“Think about the damned
Tashkent
! Do you want to be responsible for more deaths?”

“Other people, paid better than I am, make the decisions,” Dewey said.

“Look, you idiot! Look over there! The submersible is already deployed.”

“And you should recall it as soon as possible,” Captain Dewey told her. “You are placing a large part of the world at risk.”

The reporter decided to interrupt, rather than observe. “The lady’s plan seems logical to me, Captain. What are you objecting to?”

Captain Dewey turned his head and solemnly surveyed the reporter. Thomas could practically see the wheels turning inside his head. Thinking about headlines.

The commander sighed. “Very well, I’ll radio Hawaii, but I don’t think Iʼm going to get very far.”

As he left the bridge, the reporter asked her, “Your first name is Kaylene? How do you spell that?”

*

0122 HOURS LOCAL, PEARL HARBOR NAVAL BASE, HAWAII

Avery Hampstead could not believe that so many people could get so pissed off just because one man wanted to save a hundred men.

The operations room was in turmoil. Technicians banged angrily on keyboards, hauled messages in and out, updated plotting boards. Cmdr. Harold Evans held a microphone in one hand and held a headset against his ear with the other hand, talking to some captain aboard the
Bronstein
. Adm. David Potter, who was seated at the table next to Hampstead, was red-faced and on an open line to the Pentagon. Hampstead figured he was talking to the Chief of Naval Operations.

The nuclear people had congregated in one corner, trying to stay out of the battle zone. They were smarter people than he had given them credit for being.

They had known for some time, via radar contacts, that Brande had veered off course in the direction of the
Los
Angeles
. What had really raised temperatures was the
Orionʼ
s continual, “on track, on schedule,” responses to every query sent out by CINCPAC.

Hampstead had even tried the telephone, but only reached an answering machine. “Sorry we can’t get to the phone right now, but we’re on track, on schedule. Try calling back in a couple days.”

Potter slammed his phone down. His face was an even deeper red. “The son of a bitch!”

“Who?” Hampstead asked.

“All of them.”

“Admiral,” Evans said, “Captain Dewey has a Kaylene Thomas on board.”

“Who’s Thomas?”

“She’s the president of Marine Visions Unlimited,” Hampstead offered.

“What the hell does she want?”

“She’s got a plan to save the
Los
Angeles,
” Evans said.

Hampstead thought the commander sounded hopeful.

“You tell her to get that goddamned boat of hers back on course.”

“Sir? Shouldn’t we…I mean, there’s men…”

“Don’t question me, Commander. I care about those men, but I do what Washington tells me to do. You do what I tell you to do. Got that?”

Hampstead wondered if there was not another line of work in which he might be happier. One located a long way from Washington.