Ultra Deep (38 page)

“You can’t do that!” Unruh yelled. “Potter won’t let you on the air.”

“I can go to the closest radio station. Maybe they’ll listen to me, maybe not.”

“Shit, Avery. Settle down.”

“Tell me what you’re not telling me.”

“Ah, fuck! Between 0800 hours September eight and 2400 hours September nine.”

Hampstead closed his eyes. “Where’d those numbers come from?”

“From a Commonwealth modeling program. Their best estimate, we think.”

“Damn you spooks.”

“Keep it to yourself, Avery. You pass it around, and we may just lose everything”

“It’s already past the start time in the target zone,” Hampstead said.

‘Yes, we know.ˮ

*

2213 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 19' 59" NORTH, 176° 10' 33" EAST

The Topaz Four could have gone into its supercritical stage over four hours before. That was what the scientists had projected, and Col. Gen. Dmitri Oberstev had come to rely upon the scientists.

If only he had listened to Pyotr Piredenko!

He had not listened then, and he was not listening now. Piredenko and the nuclear experts gathered at Plesetsk were crying wolf at the door, but fortunately, they were only crying to Oberstev and Colonel Cherbykov. As far as Oberstev could tell, no one else aboard the
Timofey
Ol’yantsev
and no one in Vladivostok was yet aware that they had entered the window of meltdown.

He intended to see this thing through.
Red
Star
depended upon him.

In fourteen hours, at the other end of the window, he would have to make yet another decision. He preferred to not think about it yet.

Oberstev was with a crowd larger than he liked in the combat information center of the ship. Instead of tracking hostile, or potentially hostile, naval and aviation targets, the CIC was serving as the communications center between Vladivostok and the
Sea
Lion
.

Chairs had been brought into the center for him, Cherbykov, and Sodur, but he found himself on his feet more often than he was seated, leaning over the acoustic telephone operator and listening to the reports from Gennadi Drozdov. They could also be heard on the overhead speakers, but Oberstev stayed close to the operator, as if his presence would urge Drozdov into discovery.

At that moment, Drozdov was 5,100 meters below sea level, reporting that the submersible was at an altitude of forty meters above the seabed.

The
Sea
Lion
had been engaged in the search for over thirty-four hours now, operating its sonar array robot a few meters off the irregular bottom, with Drozdov and Pyotr Rastonov alternately leading the crews.

Oberstev knew the Americans were concentrating their efforts to the northeast, but he was ignoring them, especially after his conversation with Piredenko.

“Other than the meltdown data, there is nothing conclusive, General,” Piredenko had said.

“You have run how many scenarios of the model now?” Oberstev asked him.

“Over a hundred.”

“And of that hundred scenarios, was any particular sector of the area of operations chosen as a favorite landing spot by the computer?”

“Uh, I, well, just a moment, General.”

After a long time, Piredenko said, “General, there are no connections between any one run of the model and another.”

“What sector?”

“The southwest, General, but…”

Oberstev had hung up on him.

And ordered the
Sea
Lion
to focus on the southwest part of the search grid.

For thirty hours, now.

“They must be incompetents down there,” Sodur said.

“What makes you think so?” Alexi Cherbykov asked.

“I’d have located the bloody thing by now.”

“I think,” Oberstev said, “that you will assist the crew on the next dive, Colonel Sodur. Yes, I believe that would be good experience, a boon to your career.”

The sudden ashy color flooding Sodur’s face suggested otherwise.

Cherbykov left the center, then returned with glasses of tea for Oberstev and himself.

“Thank you, Alexi.”

“It may be a long night, General.”

“It may be.”

But twenty minutes later, the acoustic telephone, relayed over the speakers in the ceiling, erupted with Drozdov’s excited yell, “We’ve found it!”

September 9

Chapter Fifteen

0412 HOURS LOCAL, WASHINGTON, DC

“Hey, boss, sorry to get you out of bed,” Jack Evoy said, not sounding sorry at all. Probably because his sleep had not come in a series of continuous eight-hour chunks in the past week, either.

“What’s a bed?” Unruh asked him.

“Call my wife. She knows what an empty one is. Look, Carl, we had JPL,ˮ — the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena — “move a KH-11 into stationary orbit over the Pacific yesterday so that we’d have constant surveillance.”

“I believe you,” Unruh said, sitting up on the side of the cot which threatened to tip over, trying to rub his eyes with one hand and spot his cigarettes on the desktop at the same time. He gave up on his eyes and reached for the crumpled package. It was empty.

He was planning on quitting, anyway.

“So,” Evoy went on, “we’ve been monitoring on infrared tonight.”

“I believe that, too.”

“We’ve got ships on the move.”

“What? Whose ships?”

“Commonwealth.
Kirov
and
Kynda
and their escorts. The sonobuoys tell us the
Winter
Storm
has also dropped her search pattern and changed course. They’re all making top speed.”

“Shit. Have you got headings on them?”

“Yup, boss, we do. They’re going to visit the
Ol’yantsev
, which happens to be outside of, south of, our target area”

“Analysis?”

“Their submersible has found it. Or found something. Well know more in a little while.”

“Good, Jack. In fact, great.” Unruh stood up, stifling a yawn.

“You going to promote me?”

“No, but I may buy you dinner.”

“It’s going to have to be one damned good dinner.”

“Keep me posted. HI call the boys in the Pacific and get it up on the plotting boards.”

*

0016 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 12" NORTH, 176° 10' 46" EAST

The
Bronstein
was making full turns, headed back into the impact zone.

They had met a task force, one coming out of Hawaii, Wilson Overton assumed. An aircraft carrier, a cruiser, a bunch of destroyers, and some other types. A seagoing tug had taken over the tow of the
Los
Angeles
, and the frigate had immediately turned around and started back, moving out ahead of the task force, leaving it behind.

Overton was glad of it. He had begun to feel stranded, aboard a ship that was going to be where the action, and the story, was not.

He was on the bridge, sitting on his stool at the back, trying to be unobtrusive, and staying out of everyone’s way. Every time he stood up, or went to take a leak, the naval types gave him reproachful looks.

He could see the log readout and knew the ship was making twenty-five knots. It rose and fell with a reassuring rhythm in seas that would be frightening from lower down, from the main deck. Occasionally, a wave crashed over the bow, white water roiling down the length of it. It had started to rain an hour before, and visibility would probably be less than a quarter-mile in daylight. Big windshield wipers slapped away on the windows, almost hypnotizing.

It was almost daylight, or seemed like it. Two big searchlights were on and aimed at angles off the bow. Every once in a while, Overton saw a small boat, just a flash of white hull, as the frigate passed them. Most of the ships that had been massed at the supposed impact point had scattered when the research vessels began their search patterns. Overton felt some responsibility, some might say culpability, in regard to the civilian boats. He remembered Carl Unruh asking him not to publish the coordinates.

But he had. And fifty rather idiotic skippers had gathered at 26° 20' North, 176° 10' East. Only the lack of detail relative to the precise seconds had kept them away from the actual point of impact.

But he had been listening to the scanners, had heard of the near collisions, the shouts to get out of the way, as the civilians clustered around the search vessels. It was probably the reason the officers on the bridge bestowed such silent loathing upon him.

He had also overheard conversations between the bridge and the combat information center and understood that a lot of the smaller boats had left the area as the weather worsened, headed for Midway Island, which relieved him to some degree. Still, there were around twenty-five larger ships cruising somewhat aimlessly around the impact zone.

Overton had thought that, being aboard the Navy ship, he would be in the thick of the action, but had come to feel isolated. He did not know what was happening in the rest of the world. If the frigate was getting information about riots and protests in capital and Pacific Coast cities, no one was passing it on to him.

As he sat on his stool and watched the angry seas in the searchlights and reappreciated Joseph Conrad, a bobbing yacht appeared on the left side, sliding into the flood of light from the frigate.

Giant lettering plastered the hull.

It was not foundering, but it looked a little sick, fighting its way up the steep slopes of waves. The flying bridge was cornpletely wrapped in canvas and clear vinyl, and the foredeck seemed to be constantly awash.

Overton stood up and turned back to the communications compartment.

The ensign on duty saw him and said, “Can I help you, Mr. Overton?”

“Therms an Ocean Free boat out there. Can you raise him on the radio?”

The ensign looked around at the consoles manned by his technicians, selected one, and said, “Come on over here, Mr. Overton.”

After attempting several different marine frequencies, the operator contacted a sleepy-sounding Curtis Aaron, then passed the microphone to Overton.

After Overton identified himself, Aaron did not sound as sleepy.

“Are you on that Navy ship, Mr. Overton?”

“Yes, I am, Mr. Aaron.”

“You in contact with your paper?”

“That’s right. What is Ocean Free doing here?” Overton asked, flipping pages in his notebook to a blank page. He headed it with the date and time.

“Representing the people.”

“I see. And what do the people say about all of this?”

He listened to some ranting about Vietnam and Washington forests and interference with Lady Destiny.

“Is that a departure from your usual position?” Overton asked.

“Departure? What departure?” Perhaps because the yacht was so close, Aaron’s voice sounded very clear over the radio. The deep, resonant voice carried the tone of hurt feelings.

“As I recall, you normally have been concerned with mankind’s disruption of nature. What does destiny have to do with this?”

“Nature and destiny are very much allied,” Aaron said, but he sounded unsure of himself.

“You’re saying that the reactor should stay where it is, on the bottom of the Pacific?”

“Have you ever heard of predestination, Mr. Overton?”

“This is foreordained?”

“Every man must follow his own precepts.”

“Look, Mr. Aaron, can I get a direct quote from you? What do we do with the reactor?”

“You’ve got your story,” Aaron said and signed off.

Leaving Overton with the disturbing thought that he had pushed a confused man in the wrong direction.

*

0027 HOURS LOCAL, PEARL HARBOR NAVAL BASE, HAWAII

Avery Hampstead called his sister.

“Do you know what the hell time it is, Avery? The sun’s not up.”

“Yes, it is, Adrienne. You Manhattan people just can’t see it until it’s direcdy overhead.”

“Call me back when it is.”

“Actually, I wanted to call you earlier, but I decided to wait until a decent hour for you.”

She sighed theatrically and asked, “Your decent and my decent are two different concepts. What time is it there?”

“Almost twelve-thirty.”

“So this is important?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “I need to know something.”

“From me?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“Shoot.”

Hampstead cleared his throat and said, “You make an awful lot of money from people shelling out their hard-earned bucks to see something of a, for want of a well-thought-out word, sleazy program.”

“Sleazy! I wouldn’t call it sleazy!”

“You have a better vocabulary than I do, Adrienne.”

“My matches are not sleazy!”

“What are they?” Hampstead asked.

“They’re what people want them to be.”

“True championships?”

“Entertainment. That’s what people pay for, Avery. Entertainment.”

“And you don’t feel” — he almost said “disgust” — “badly about taking their money?”

“What’s this all about, Avery?”

“I just want to know how you feel about your work.”

“Do I sleep at night, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Ahhh. This relates to you, does it?”

“Yes, my dear, it does.”

“I sleep exceptionally well at night, brother of mine. I’m true to me. People are going to pay for what they want, anyway, and I simply provide them with what they want. I’m not making any moral or ethical choices. They’ve already been made.”

“Thank you, dear. That was helpful.”

After he hung up, he was not certain how helpful. Hampstead got up from the chair he had come to know well, rounded the end of the table and headed for the corner where four of the nuclear experts were gathered.

He pulled out a spare chair and sat down.

Harlan Ackerman said, “Avery?”

“Straight up, Harlan. Is the reactor supercritical?” Ackerman glanced at Henrique d’Artilan, the man from the International Atomic Energy Agency, then said, “Right now?”

“Right now.”

“It’s possible, Avery. If they in fact used the same switching circuitry on the Four as they did on Topaz Two, it’s likely.”

“Just because of that damned switch?”

“Yes. It’s really an integrated circuit, accepting signals from different sensors. If it senses catastrophe, it’s supposed to shut down the reactor.”

“But it’s wired wrong?”

“Yes.”

“And our people are at risk?”

“More people will be at risk if we don’t go ahead with the recovery”

“Shouldn’t Brande and his people be allowed to make their own decision?”

Ackerman did not answer.

Hampstead turned to the Frenchman, but he was not going to answer, either.

“Have you been watching the plot, Avery?” Ackerman asked.

Hampstead turned to look up at the display.

“The Soviet ships are converging,” he said.

“Exactly. We think they’ve got it pinpointed,” Ackerman said.

“And we don’t want to clog up the process just now, do we?” d’Artilan asked.

*

0149 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 5" NORTH, 176° 10' 36" EAST

When the starboard weight did not drop, there had been a supreme moment of panic, when the adrenaline hit top pumping limits.

Brande had felt it the second the LED did not go green, and the red LED began flashing. Involuntarily, he stopped breathing. His forearm tightened up on him, and he looked down to see Connie Alvarez-Sorenson’s tiny hand gripping it. Her face was pale.

“What … what happened?” she asked.

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” Brande told her.

The interior of the pressure hull felt a great deal colder than it was.

Brande tried the emergency release switch, but the LED kept flashing, and the weight did not release.

Behind him, Kim Otsuka let her breath go in a long ragged sigh. Then she said, “
Atlas
?”

“I think so,” Brande said. “Connie, let’s you and me change places.”

She was tiny, and that helped as Brande let her slide across his lap, then settled himself into the right seat.

Otsuka called the surface. “Who’s on? Okey?”

“Got me, beautiful. We talking dinner? A movie? Something wonderful?”

“We’ve got a problem.”

Dokey’s tone did not change. He stayed calm, almost bored. “Tell me about, would you? Environmental systems?”

“They’re fine, Okey. One of the weights is hung up.”

As Otsuka reported on each of the monitoring systems, Brande activated the control panel in front of him, fed power to the ROV, and switched on the robot’s video camera and lights. He put
Atlas’s
view on the starboard screen.

He saw a waterscape of nothing that faded into darkness. Gripping the joysticks lightly, he eased the left one forward, and the ROV began moving, slipping out of its sheath, dragging its cable behind. It began to appear in the porthole in front of him.