Ultra Deep (35 page)

The plotting display had been refined to the immediate area of the crash zone. Most of the players were on the scene. The
Sea
Lion
had already been deployed by the Russians, and the
Eastern
Flower
was in the vicinity, though she had not yet launched a submersible. Reports from the submarines were being shared with the Japanese and the Russians, but so far, the Russians had not responded in kind.

“Okay, Patterson. Give it to me.”

“The eggheads broke down the computer tape. It’s not an application program, but it lists the data obtained from one run of the computer model.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, the configuration of the rocket when it hit the sea, and then what might have happened afterward. Fins moved one way or another, boosters breaking off, that kind of thing. This particular model shows the rocket hitting at over four hundred kilometers per hour, a booster separating, and the rocket veering to the southeast from the point of impact.”

“Damn. When can I get that data in hard copy?”

“Iʼm sending a courier now. But don’t jump on it, Carl. It’s just one scenario.”

“I understand that,” Unruh said, “but maybe it’ll help somebody.”

“Here’s something that won’t help anyone: the meltdown is scheduled to begin between 1800 hours, eight September, and 2400 hours, nine September.”

“Fuck!”

“That’s local time in the area of operations, and it looks like solid data, Carl. The eggheads say that information was not entered as a variable.”

Unruh felt sick. That hot roast beef sandwich was no longer appetizing.

“Jesus, Oren. What do I do?”

“Take it and run, Carl. Run like a sumbitch.”

September 8

Chapter Fourteen

0915 HOURS LOCAL, WASHINGTON, DC

In the hallway outside the Situation Room, the haze was thick. The smokers had been slipping out there for a quick drag with increasing frequency.

Carl Unruh, who did not smoke anymore, much, was into his second pack of Marlboros. He stubbed his cigarette out in a sand-filled cannister ashtray, rubbed his cheeks to gauge how much longer he could last before finding a place to shave, then went back into the Situation Room.

The State Department was back down to one representative. The negotiation team had gone back to 23rd Street where they were making sweet talk with their counterparts in Moscow. They were pressing for details on the computer crash modeling program and on the Topaz nuclear reactor.

The CIS foreign ministry negotiators, on the other hand, were pressing for charges against the excursion ship that had attacked the
Winter
Storm
and for removal of the civilian ships that were hampering the search efforts.

They had yet to settle on mutual topics which might be negotiable.

The Defense Department was well represented this morning. Benjamin Delecourt and Harley Wiggins had been buttressed by the Secretary of Defense, three service secretaries, and generals from Navy, Marines and Air Force.

They had shown up last night, as soon as Unruh had reported the new meltdown data to the DCI, the National Security Advisor and the President.

The Senate and House attendees had not been advised of the foreshortened timetable.

No decisions had been reached, more than twelve hours after the National Security Agency had finished interpreting the computer tape.

Unruh’s nerves grated from the inaction.

The plotting board appeared to be suffering from the same inaction. The movement of ships seemed infinitesimal. To the west of the impact zone, the
Kirov
and
Kynda
task forces had not moved. To the east, the Navy task force out of Hawaii was still en route, but had slowed down by order of the President, who had finally come to his senses, in Unruh’s perception.

Within the zone were the four research vessels —
Kane
,
Bartlett
,
Orion
and
Eastern
Flower
—
and
the converted
Timofey
Olʼyantsev
. Their movements were sluggish on the chart as they inched along after their deep-diving submersibles and towed sonar gear. All of them were being dogged by civilian ships that had sailed northeastward from the media-broadcast impact point as soon as the research vessels began to follow their search patterns in the true impact zone.
Kane
had reported that a large yacht loaded with media people was staying close by.

The Navy’s DSRV had finally been repaired, and along with its cable, was en route to Hawaii from San Diego. Current forecasts, however, predicted that the weather would not permit a parachute drop of the robot to the
Kane
.

The actual area of the search had been tinted blue on the electronic display. It formed a trapezoid with the parallel sides running north and south, two miles long on the western edge — longitude 176° 10' 6". The eastern boundary had been set along longitude 176° 10' 50", about thirteen miles east of the point of impact. That side of the trapezoid was twelve miles long, extending as far south as latitude 26° 19' 55".

After discussions with the oceanographers aboard the
Orion
and an apparent argument with CINCPAC, the Navy people aboard the
Kane
had refined the area, based on what they knew about the angle of the rocket as it hit the sea. If it had not broken up immediately, they estimated that, with its fins for stabilization, it could glide up to twelve miles.

Based on information recorded from the sonobuoys, the CIS submarines had been covering a much larger area, and Unruh hoped the Russians did not know something the American experts did not know.

A few subsurface geologic formations had also been indicated on the display, resulting from information forwarded by the
Los
Angeles
before her accident and from the
Houston
. The site of a shipwreck, probably dating from World War II, had been identified, but it was southwest of the search area.

As reports came in from the research vessels, channeled through the
Kane
and CINCPAC, the technicians were beginning to display a few negative numbers. Depths of 17,000, 18,000, and 19,000 feet were starting to be shown. Just from the spacing of the numbers, Unruh could picture an exceptionally rugged sea bottom.

To the south of the search area, with the bottom right corner of the search area extending over it, was the suggestion of a deeper canyon.

Unruh remembered standing in downtown Colorado Springs once, looking up at Pikes Peak. The tip of the peak was 8,000 feet above the city, 14,000 feet above sea level. That view had been awesome. Thinking about the reverse, depths of 20,000 feet, stretched the imagination to the breaking point.

Picking up a sugared donut from the stainless steel cart, Unruh carried it over to the table and sat down next to Mark Stebbins. His dietary regimen had gone to hell, and he was afraid to face a scale.

Gathered around that end of the table, all of the advisors were still debating the finer points.

Unruh was getting damned tired of it. He had been on the brink for over a week. All he needed was a simple goddamned decision. He broke in. “Gentlemen, I know Iʼm low dog in this house, but I’m the one who’s supposed to inform the civilians. Can I have a yes or no?”

The President looked at his watch. “The computer model says twenty hours from now?”

“Yes, sir.”

The President looked up at the display. “There doesn’t seem to be much progress.”

“No, sir.” They had been delaying a decision, hoping to hear optimistic reports from the Pacific.

“If we tell them what Piredenko predicts, the searchers might scatter, and we’ll never find it.”

Probably, Unruh thought.

“If we don’t tell them, we’ll probably find it. We also stand to lose a few people if it does go supercritical.”

“A few people,” the CNO said.

“No,” said the President. “We’ll keep Pyotr Piredenko’s estimates to ourselves.”

It was a tough way to go, Unruh thought, though he also agreed with it. Though he had never met Brande or any of his oceanographic scientists, the heroic splash Wilson Overton’s article in the
Post
had made over the rescue of the
Los
Angeles
had given Unruh an appreciation for the courage and dedication of the people on the research vessel.

He reached for the telephone, to call Hampstead, then remembered that the Commerce undersecretary did not handle classified information very well.

Withdrawing his hand from the phone, he decided no call was necessary.

He hoped that Overton did not have to make, in addition to a hero, a martyr out of Brande.

*

0547 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 8" NORTH, 176° 10' 47" EAST

“
Orion
, this is
Winter
Storm.
”

“
Si
, this is the
Orion
. Go ahead,
Storm
.ˮ

“I am Captain Gurevenich. I would like to speak with Mr. Dane Brande”

“
Un
momento
. Iʼll find him,
Capitan.
”

The English language never failed to amaze Gurevenich. New phrases kept popping up.

He was beginning to lose track of how many times they had covered the search area in the last five days. The constant tension of cruising at the extreme depth limits, in addition to doubled watches, had worn the crew to a frazzle.

And his men still did not know that they were looking for a prize that could mean their deaths. That knowledge caused Gurevenich a great deal of sleepless rest. The junior officer, Lieutenant Kazakov, had demanded more information about the rocket after his visit to the American submarine, when Commander Taylor had let slip the word reactor, but Gurevenich had sworn the lieutenant to secrecy. Still, when they passed each other in a corridor, in the wardroom, or in the control center, Kazakov treated him to baleful, accusing looks.

Sr. Lt. Ivan Mostovets appeared in the hatchway to the communications compartment, and Gurevenich motioned him inside.

As soon as they had achieved a cruising depth of twenty meters, to deploy the antenna as well as give the crew a respite from the nerve-wracking depths, Gurevenich had chased the radioman from the compartment.

“We are making ten knots, and we are on course, Captain. The surface is very rough.”

Gurevenich nodded to the executive officer. When it was so smooth at depth, it was difficult to remember that storms frequently raged over the Pacific Ocean.

“Captain Gurevenich, Dane Brande.”

“Mr. Brande, I believe it is you I must thank for the charts provided earlier. Valeri Dankelov told me so.”

“Exceptionally small compensation for your assistance with the
Los
Angeles
, Captain. We thank you.”

“I am glad we were in a position to assist,” Gurevenich said. “I have been thinking that it is time we should share more information.”

Mostovets’s eyebrow rose.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Brande said.

“We have had magnetometer readings of a mass on the seamount at twenty minutes, twenty-four seconds north, ten minutes, fifty seconds east. It is at one thousand meters depth, and we suspect a shipwreck. Additionally, Mr. Brande, we suspect a seamount five kilometers directly south of the wreck. The depth would be approximately two thousand meters.”

“That is helpful, Captain. Tell you what, though. I’ll give you the radio frequency for the
RV
Kane
, and you can transmit your data directly to them. In exchange, they will provide you with our latest information. How about your submersible, the
Sea
Lion
? Have you heard anything from her?”

Gurevenich had not known that the deep-diving submersible had even been deployed as yet. So much for high-technology communications.

“I have not, Mr. Brande.”

“We’d sure like to swap stories with them. Maybe you could put in a good word for us, Captain?”

“I will speak with General Oberstev.”

“General Oberstev? He’s with Rocket Forces, isn’t he?” Brande asked.

“Yes. He is in charge of this operation.”

Brande did not voice any amazement that an Air Force officer was leading a naval search, so Gurevenich did not share his own resentment.

“Well, we’d sure be happy to talk to him, too,” Brande said, then read off a radio frequency.

“I will tell him. Good day, Mr. Brande.”

Gurevenich released the transmit button and said to Mostovets, “Give that frequency to Kartashkin, then contact the
Kane.
”

Mostovets shook his head up and down with his approval.

Gurevenich keyed in the task force network frequency used by the
Timofey
Ol’yantsev
and the cruisers and asked for General Oberstev.

He must have been right on the bridge, for the response was rapid. “Yes, Captain?”

“General, we have been traversing the crash area for five days…”

“With a deviation for that incident with the American submarine.”

“I would not do it differently tomorrow, General.”

“Very well, proceed.”

“It is time to quit deceiving ourselves,” Oberstev said, holding his breath. “We must work with the Americans and the Japanese.”

After a long hesitation, Oberstev said, “I will take your recommendation under consideration, Captain.”

Which meant that he would pass it along to Vladivostok and Moscow, no doubt. Then would wait hours and days for the answer, which would most likely be negative.

Gurevenich switched the microphone to the boat’s public address system.

“Your attention, This is the captain. I have information regarding the crashed rocket that I will now share with you. Please listen carefully…”

*

1112 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 12" NORTH, 176° 10' 29" EAST

Kim Otsuka planted her feet wide on the steel deck and stood near the railing, gripping it tightly with both hands. Wind-whipped, cold spray spattered the flesh of her face, but it was refreshing after the time she had devoted to the computer terminal.

The
Orion
rose and fell with the sea, but was otherwise relatively stable. Her cycloidal propellers were working well. She knew that Mel Sorenson would have locked the autopilot navigation system into the satellite global navigation system, and the research vessel was moving at carefully calculated speeds and directions, staying above the course of the
DepthFinder
, which was several miles below the surface of the sea.