Ultra Deep

Chapter Eleven

Pyotr Nicholavich Piredenko, the Director of the Flight Data Computer Center, was troubled.

He did not consider himself particularly brilliant, but he did think he was competent, a craftsman in his field. As a scientist, he also thought that he was a fair observer, and he did not like what he was seeing.

For four days now, he and his staff had been working with seven members of the Atomnaya Secretariat on nothing but computer modeling of the A2e crash. A scheduled launch had been delayed in order to devote computer time to continual replays of the launch and subsequent failure of the rocket. Using the actual telemetry data, they were able to reconstruct perfectly the speeds, pressures, and altitudes of the rocket right up to the moment of impact. From that point on, they tested seemingly endless variables in the attempt to determine what might have transpired with the payload and, more important, where the rocket and payload might have come to a final rest.

In fifty simulations, the computer suggested fifty possible landing locations on the ocean floor.

In fifty simulations, the computer suggested only one scenario for the nuclear reactor in the payload module.

During his infrequent breaks for a nap or a tasteless meal, Piredenko found himself sleepless or not hungry. His mind rumbled with damnations of General Oberstev, who would not listen to reason, and reactor designers, who would not imagine anything but perfection in their design.

And who had made the simplest of errors in their circuitry design. A fatal error.

Also during his breaks, he would guzzle glasses of tea and review the dispatches issued by television, by Radio Moscow, by Pravda and by Novoye Vremya. There was not one mention of the potential disaster. Despite the media openness of recent years, some setbacks in Commonwealth domestic and foreign programs still went unreported.

Pyotr Piredenko was observer enough to realize that once again the Rodina, the motherland, was burying her head in the sand, afraid of the loss of face, distressed at owning up to her responsibilities. She, and many in her leadership, were ever sensitive to criticism by a world that was scrutinizing them so closely. It was, he thought, a trait ingrained deeply in the generations that followed the Revolution.

The director was also observer enough to realize that one Vladimir Yevstavyev, a civilian electronics technician assigned to the cosmodrome, did not make enough money to purchase shirts with Arrow labels, shoes with a Reebok logo, or portable cassette players with Sony stamped on them. Piredenko’s life revolved around his computer center, and he had not worried unduly about the sources of Yevstavyev’s additional income. Piredenko was not in the business of counterespionage, and if the experts had not detected a problem in the technician’s life-style, Piredenko was not going to enlighten them.

He stood at the back of his computer center, just outside his glass-walled office, and scanned the activity. All of the consoles were manned, flight center personnel and men from the atomic energy bureau hovering over the operators at their keyboards as segments of the ill-fated rocket’s flight were examined yet again.

He made up his mind.

Crossing to the rack of computer tapes — duplicates of data stored on the computer’s hard disk drives — Piredenko randomly selected one plastic box. The label was written in thick black ink and read: FLT PLK92/64 Simulation #47.

He dropped it in the pocket of his white laboratory smock, scanned the room once again, and saw that no one seemed overly interested in him.

He told the woman nearest him that he would be in the cafeteria and then left the center.

In the cafeteria, some twenty people were idling during their rest times. Vladimir Yevstavyev was one of them, and Piredenko was not surprised. The man had been present almost every time that Piredenko had visited the cafeteria. He drew tea from an urn and carried the glass across the dining hall to sit at the small table opposite Yevstavyev.

“Good evening, Director.”

The man’s face displayed only slight shock at Piredenko’s uninvited company. The two had never exchanged more than a nod of recognition in the past.

“Hello, Vladimir. You look tired.”

“We are on double shifts, Director. As you must be.”

Piredenko placed his glass on the table, then laid the tape box beside it, label down.

“Yes, though it feels twice that.”

They chatted about inconsequential for Five minutes, then Piredenko finished his tea and rose. “I must return to my charges.”

“Have a good night, Director.”

Piredenko walked away, leaving the tape box resting on the table.

When he glanced back from the doorway, the box had disappeared.

0950 HOURS LOCAL, PEARL HARBOR NAVAL BASE, HAWAII

Avery Hampstead was on the telephone again, as he had known that he would be for this week and perhaps the next week. The table in front of him was littered with telephones, and he thought that he had used every one of them. Naval people in khaki uniforms moved around the operations center as if they had purposes. The conversational buzz was low-volume, which he appreciated.

“I believe your voice sounds clearer with each passing moment, Dane.”

“That’s just your imagination working, Avery”

“Or my optimism. Did you get the maps?”

“We did. Where did you find them?”

“My lovely secretary — or perhaps she’s my boss — Angie and I have been calling every oceanographic outfit in the world. We simply asked if they had ever done exploratory work in the region, and if they had, could we see their maps. Except for the CIS, they’ve been very obliging. The photocopies have been rolling in.”

“Larry Emry’s happy,” Brande said. “He’s busy updating his geologic data base.”

“When he’s done, do you suppose he could transmit copies to us and to the Kane?” Hampstead asked. “We’re all compiling our own, of course, but the comparisons might erase a few glitches.”

There were discrepancies between some of the maps they had received — seamounts, trenches, valleys appearing hundreds of yards off of reported geographic positions. Most of those could be attributed to data collected prior to the more exact navigational positioning provided by the Global Navigation System.

“We’ll send it out as soon as we can.”

“We’ll be eternally grateful,” Hampstead said.

“I doubt it. Now, do you want to talk about the reason I called you?”

“No.”

Brande ignored the negative response and went on. “I have here a copy of an order signed by the Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of the Navy, and the Chief of Naval Operations. Under the provisions of an executive order declaring an emergency, they have commandeered my ship for thirty days.”

“I may have seen a copy of the same order,” Hampstead acknowledged.

“Whatʼs going on, Avery?”

“Well, you could have been more diplomatic with Admiral Potter, Dane.”

“To hell with Admiral Potter. It’s my ship.”

“It wouldn’t hurt…”

“But, Avery, thanks to Rae, I also have a prior-dated memorandum from you. I’m under contract to the Department of Commerce.”

“If we line up Commerce on one side of the Potomac and Defense on the other side, Dane, then open up with the weapons available to both sides, I think Commerce will be decimated. I’m talking legal weapons, of course.”

“Go over their heads, Avery.”

“That’s the President.”

“I know.”

“I only say ‘yessir’ to the President,” Hampstead said.

“This isn’t going to work,” Brande said.

“Well, if you just take it easy, go along with…”

“CINCPAC telexed us the search pattern we’re supposed to follow.”

“Yes.”

“You’re at CINCPAC. Why didn’t you bitch about it?”

“I’ve not been asked for input on that, Dane. They have the experts in that field.”

“It’s designed by a guy whose primary objective in life is looking for hostile submarines. We’re not searching for a submarine.”

“I’ll raise your objection with the search committee,” Hampstead said.

“I might have known it was a committee.”

The forward torpedo room had become a museum of the Tashkent. About sixty kilograms of flotsam from the stricken submarine had been recovered on the surface and stowed aboard the Winter Storm.

Gurevenich had ordered it left alone, but he knew that it was on everyone’s mind as they resumed the search pattern. It caused the men of the submarine to maintain even more silence than they had previously.

Rubbing the fatigue from his eyes with the heels of his hands, Gurevenich sat in the wardroom with a cup of tea and a half-eaten sandwich. His appetite had disappeared along with the Tashkent.

He looked up when Mostovets stepped in.

“Something, Ivan Yosipovich?”

“No, Captain. We have analyzed the tapes of a sonar return on a peak at one thousand meters depth. It is to the north about six kilometers. I ordered a magnetometer reading taken on our next pass, but I suspect the mass is much greater than that of a rocket. It wills an old shipwreck.”

It was the second wreck they had located. He could not count the Tashkent. What was left of the submarine had gone down, down, down, off their sonar, and into an abyss of unknown depth.

The analysis of sonar readings was difficult even when they were tracking the bottom. The blotches and smears on the screen — or on tapes of the screen — did not distinguish between artificial, man-made objects and natural debris on the seabed. What promised to be a nose cone could just as well be a rock outcropping.

And this was true only when they could see the bottom, which was infrequent. So far, they had identified four seamounts, the highest to the north, about a kilometer north of the point of impact.

“What of the Houston?” Gurevenich asked.

“Our contacts have been intermittent, but it seems to be following an east-west pattern, Captain, at six hundred meters of depth, and several kilometers to the north.”

“And the surface ships?”

“Still gathered to the west,” Mostovets reported.

The published and broadcast reports of the rocket’s point of impact on the surface of the Pacific Ocean had apparently been generally described as 26 degrees, 20 minutes North, 176 degrees, 10 minutes East, for that was where the gaggle of civilian ships had congregated. The actual impact point was to the northeast of that position by five kilometers, more precisely located eleven seconds further north and twenty-three seconds further east. He hoped that no one further enlightened the sightseers.

“The Kirov,” Mostovets continued, “has stationed itself slightly northwest of the civilian ships.”

“Amazing,” Gurevenich said. “Fleet Command actually followed a recommendation that I made.”

“It would appear so, Captain. If the Kirov maintains its position, it may keep the civilian craft away from the actual search area.”

“At least until the Timofey Olʼyantsev arrives. They will likely have to operate the Sea Lion closer to the crash area.”

“And the civilians will interfere, no doubt,” Mostovets said.

“Probably.”

“And the Kirov will have to demonstrate its firepower.”

“Let us hope not, Ivan Yosipovich.”

“Oh, God, no!” Brande said.

He was seated at the wardroom table with Okey Dokey and Rae Thomas.

Bucky Sanders, who had just come through the door with a seaman named Rivers, grinned at him. “Iʼm afraid so.”

“Mel put you on galley duty again?”

“That’s right.”

“He hasn’t learned much about your prowess with a pan, Bucky.”

“You could always talk to him.”

“What are we having?”

“Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.”

“You’ll find a way to grill the soup and boil the cheese, won’t you?”

“I think I’ve got it figured out this time,” Sanders said as he and Rivers disappeared into the galley.

“Put that on your list of priorities, Madame President,” Dokey said. “We need competent cooks. Trained in France would be all right.”

Dokey was wearing a sweatshirt this morning. It was adorned with two’60s pelicans doing the twist. The’90s version of that shirt had the pelicans doing the Lambada.

“We’re not running a resort,” Thomas said.

“We’re supposed to be running a world-class organization,” Dokey countered.

“That doesn’t extend to catering the food service. Next. Jim Word wants some research done on the ingots and cannon barrel.”

“Send Brandie Anderson to the archives in Spain,” Brande said.

“You sweet on her?” Thomas asked him.

Dokey glanced briefly at both of them, then said, “He’s not, but I am.”

“The practical research experience will do more for her than a hundred hours of classroom time,” Brande said.

“A free trip to Spain for her? You know what that will cost? Oh, hell. Okay.”

“Did you work up an inspection schedule, Okey?” Brande asked.

“Yup. Right here.”

Dokey slid the paper across the table and Brande studied it for a few minutes. One of the enemies of oceanographic exploration was the sea itself. No matter how waterproof a compartment seemed to be, moisture crept in and corroded delicate electronics, causing shorts and outright failures. All of the ROVs and DepthFinder; though now considered prepared for service, would be inspected regularly, every six hours.

Dokey’s inspection chart listed the times, the primary inspector, the backup inspector, and the test equipment to be used. There were columns in which to pencil in initials and times of examination.

“Looks good, Okey. Go ahead and post it.”

“Okay, Chief”

Dokey slid out of his chair and took his mug of coffee with him.

“Hey, Dane!”

Larry Emry was at his contrived workstation in the first booth. In addition to his computer terminal, a telephone line and a radio transmitter had been added to the booth.

“What’s up, Larry?”

“I just talked to CINCPAC. The first transponder is in place. Dropped by the Houston.”

In keeping with the Navy’s search scheme, the submarines were going to plant transponders — emitting a recorded signal on four different frequencies — at each corner of the search area. Not only would they define the search region, they could be used to triangulate the position of each search vessel. Supplementing the Global Navigation System, the accuracy of the search would be enhanced.

“Did you get the frequencies?” Brande asked.

“Damn betcha. And I’ve got my final chart prepared. Do I ship it to the Kane?”

“I suppose so. Otherwise, I get court-martialed.”

“Can they court-martial a civilian?” Thomas asked.

“I doubt it, but I don’t put them above trying.” Dane called over the back of the booth, “And Larry, send it to CINCPAC, too.”

“How about the subs?”

“Yeah. Ask Pearl Harbor for contact frequencies, and when the subs come up for air or something, we’ll zip them some charts.”

“If we’re going that far,” Thomas asked, “should we include the Russians in our mailing list? And the Japanese?”

“Let’s hold off for now. Maybe we’ll need a bargaining chip later.”

Thomas had reached the last page of her notes.

“Anything else, Rae? I want to put everyone on sleep duty. They’ll need to get as much as they can before we go into action.”

“One item, Dane. On the workboats, Iʼm going to sell off Priscilla. We’ll use the proceeds to overhaul and retrofit Cockamamie and Mighty Moose *

“Is that your final decision?” he asked.

“What?” Defensively.

“I think it’s great. Can we paint them white, with the yellow diagonal?”

“If we get enough money out of Priscilla.ˮ

“Not firing Bull Kontas?”

“He’ll retire soon, I suppose.” She gave him a lopsided grin.

Brande slid out of the booth. “If that’s it, Rae, Iʼm going to go tuck people in.”

“They won’t tuck very well in broad daylight,” she said. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure.”

“Out on deck.”

Thomas rose from the bench seat, and he followed her out of the wardroom. She was wearing white deck shoes, white slacks, and a blue-and-white striped, bow-necked polo shirt. Her stride was very deliberate, countering the slight rise and fall of the deck. He found himself appreciating the taut fabric of her slacks.

Brande reached around her to open the door to the side deck, and they stepped out. The sun was bright, and the wind created by the speed of the ship was warm. It tousled her hair. Somewhat sensuously, Brande thought. To the west, the view was more dismal. Tall stratocumulus clouds reached for the sky, and their bases were dark and threatening.

Thomas turned and leaned against the railing.

He stepped close to her, so they did not have to shout over the breeze and the loud whisper of water passing the hull.

“About last night … ” she started.

“All right. What about last night?”

“Iʼm sorry I fell apart like that.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Rae. All of us are frightened from time to time, and right now is a damned good time to be scared.”

“It’s certainly not the image I want to project as a manager.”

“Who’s to know?”

“Well, Okey…”

“In spite of popular belief, Okey is very tight-mouthed about the important things.”

Her mouth was barely touched with cinnamon lipstick. It suddenly looked inviting to Brande.

“Can I ask you a question? One that Iʼve always wanted to ask?”

“Sure.”

“Why won’t you call me Kaylene?”

Flash of blue-green water, so clear that he could see for a hundred feet. Yellow and orange and red streaking the seabed. Her eyes closing so slowly.

“My wife’s name was Kay. Janelle Kay. I guess I shy away from it.”

“Oh, my God!” Thomas’s hand went to her mouth. “I didn’t even know you were married, Dane.”

“She died on a dive in the Caribbean,” he said, trying to not relive it.

Her hand left her mouth and gripped his left forearm. “I’m so sorry, Dane. Sorry I brought it up, too.”

“I guess I assume that people know my history,” he said. “But Okey’s probably the only one who does. He doesn’t talk about it, and I’ve never felt a need to do so.”

The ship heeled to port a few degrees, and Brande took one step closer to her before he regained his balance.

“If I can be candid,” Thomas said, “that’s one thing that’s bothered me about you. About MVU.”

“What’s that?”

“You seem so open with everybody, and you’re usually in good humor. Everyone adores you. And yet, no one here really knows you. It makes you less…human, somehow. To me, anyway.”

Brande had to think about that for a little bit. It was probably true.

“I’m not trying to be critical,” she said.

He detected a whiff of her perfume. A trace of bougainvillea.

“Maybe Iʼm just programmed?” he told her. “Like Atlas?ˮ

“You’re sloughing it off.” Her other hand came up to grasp his upper arm. “But, Iʼll give up prying. I don’t want to be a snoop, and I don’t mean to be overly critical.”

“That’s okay. The president should know her people.”

“Even the boss?”

“Why not?”

Brande freed his arm, put it around her shoulders, and gave her a hug. He felt a trifle awkward doing it. He had never been the touchy type.

Then he turned back toward the door and reached out for the handle.

Looked up.

Connie Alvarez-Sorenson was standing on the port wing, looking down at them. She winked.

“Well,” Thomas said, “I can forget about Okey. There’s one mouth that’s difficult to control.”

“Your government fully expects that you will provide them with the latest data as it becomes available to you,” Mr. Sato said.

“That decision is not up to me,” Kim Otsuka said.

“You must make it so,” the consulate representative said. “Also, we will require a copy of the robot computer application program.”

“For which robot?” Otsuka asked.

After a moment’s hesitation, in which she was certain Mr. Sato was digesting the unexpected information that there was more than one robot, he said, “I will inquire further and then call you again.”

He hung up, and Otsuka slowly replaced her receiver in its cradle on the bulkhead intercom panel next to the booth in which she sat. It was the fourth of four booths, and it used to be the only one with a phone.

From the galley came the clank of pans as the two seamen on galley duty prepared lunch. Larry Emry was at his computer terminal, updating charts. Dane and Kaylene were in the booth behind her, after having been absent for a while, going over the accounts or something. Every once in a while, Dane protested something Kaylene wanted to do, but he seemed to make his protests lightheartedly.

Otsuka twisted around onto her knees and peered over the back of the bench seat. Kaylene was right below her, with a yellow notepad, pages of numbers, and a calculator spread around her. Dane was across the table, slumped back, with his feet up on the end of the U-shaped bench. His expression was one of half amusement, and Otsuka guessed that he was not taking this meeting with Kaylene seriously.

“May I interrupt?” Otsuka asked.

“God, yes!” Dane told her.

“I just talked to my consulate.”

Kaylene leaned over and looked back over her shoulder. “What’d they want?”

“They want me to provide them — actually, the Eastern Flower — With any pertinent exploration data that we might develop.”

“I don’t have a problem with that,” Brande said. “We’re going to need all the help we can get, and it’s a hell of a lot better if we’re all working with the same information. Send them the updated charts, for a start.”

“They also want a copy of the operating program for a robot. They don’t know which one, but it’s probably Gargantua.”

“Hmmm,” Brande said.

“Bullshit!” Thomas added.

Various patents and copyrights within Marine Visions were shared in different ways. Gargantua’s structural design was shared by the company, Brande, Dokey and Dankelov. The electronics designs belonged to the company, to Dokey and to Mayberry. His programming belonged to the company, Otsuka and Polodka — twenty-five percent, fifty-five percent, and twenty percent, respectively. The company retained control of merchandising and production rights. Otsuka had thought the distribution policy a fair one since the company provided the research facilities and her salary.

“Why do you suppose they need the program?” Dane asked.

She had given it a speedy consideration. “I suspect that whatever robot they plan to use with their submersible is not yet operational. They’re trying to complete it en route.”

“And yet they’ve jumped right into this search?”

“Of course,” she said. “The publicity that will attach to anyone successful in the recovery is worth millions of dollars, Dane.”

“Would they take the risk of using an untested submersible and robot?” Kaylene asked.

“I do not know anyone at Hokkaido Marine Industries, but I imagine the answer is yes. They would view this disaster as an opportunity.”

Brande was watching her face closely, and Otsuka felt as if his gray eyes could see behind her own, could probe within her mind.

“Have you been threatened, Kim?” he asked.

She was glad that the relationships at MVU were so candid. Very little was ever hidden from another.

“Not directly,” she said. “It was implied that my passport could be revoked.”

“Give them the program,” he said.

“I’ll be damned if we will,” Thomas said. “Grab that phone and call Hampstead, Kim.”

“My plotting board looks like a live jigsaw puzzle,” Unruh said.

“Bet it looks just like mine,” Hampstead responded. “We’ve enlarged the display to show just the area of operations. I think it looks like a tag-team match, with about ten people on each team, and about ten teams.”

“I didn’t know you liked wrestling, Avery.”

“I don’t. Hate it.”

Unruh did not think he would pursue that line.

“Do you have any close friends in the State Department, Carl?”

“Of course not.”

“Just one?”

“Maybe. What’d you need?”

Hampstead told him about a problem with one of Brande’s scientists and her consulate.

“Wouldn’t you know someone would be trying to commercialize this thing, Avery?”

“I see it more as blackmail and industrial espionage.” “Well, let me make a few phone calls. Is that your only problem?”

“No,” Hampstead said, “but it’ll do for now.”

“You’ve got the Kirov identified?”

“Yes. She’s staying on the perimeter. CINCPAC says there’s fifty-seven civilian boats cluttering up the screen now. Several of them, according to one of the aircraft pilots, have approached the Russians. Right now, they’re sitting in place, about a quarter of a mile away, trying to stare down four big damned warships, Carl.”

“Waving banners?” Unruh asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe just fingers.”

“It’s worse elsewhere,” Unruh said, eyeing the status boards on easels that were lined up on one side of the Situation Room. “The Commonwealth naval base at Cam Ranh Bay is under siege by a horde of Vietnamese protestors.”

“Good,” was Hampstead’s response.

“A CIS Air Force attache at the United Nations was slugged in the face by a staffer from the Philippines delegation.”

“In the U.N. building?”

“Right. The CIS delegation is demanding that they be allowed to increase their security detachment.”

“Will they? Be allowed, I mean?”

“I can’t imagine that it will happen. Bob Balcon has asked the NYPD to give them a few extra cops.”

“There’s a major rally taking place at Waikiki Beach right now,” Hampstead said.

“The FBI has it listed here.”

“They want the Commonwealth expelled from the United Nations for endangering the world.”

“Is that right? That’ll really help improve communications,” Unruh said.

“Are we having any? Communications?”

“We might have, Avery. The President has called in the CIS ambassador. The ambassador asked for a delay in order to accumulate information. You can bet your ass he’s on the hot line to Moscow.”

“We wouldn’t happen to be listening in on his conversation, would we?”

“Avery.”

“Well?”

“Of course we are. But it’s scrambled and in code, naturally.”

“Naturally. How about data on the reactor?”

“We’re asking around.”

“You’ve been doing that for four days.”

“These things take time,” Unruh said. He had been on the line to Oren Patterson a dozen times, anxious, but not trying to pressure the DDO any more than he already was.

“You’re not giving us very much with which to work,” Hampstead complained.

“Well, there is one more thing.”

“I’m waiting with delicious anticipation.”

“The Navy people convinced the President that, with the CIS task force on-site and more coming, we should have more of a presence.”

“Oh, shit!”

“An aircraft carrier and two cruisers, with appropriate support craft, will be ordered out of Pearl Harbor within the next hour or so.”

“Jesus Christ, Carl! I’d rather have the committees and the summit talk.”

“Surface!”

Neil Garrison echoed Taylor’s order. “Surface. Full up, planesman.”

“Aye aye, sir, full up.”

“Sound General Quarters,” Taylor said.

The klaxon went off, feet began to thud along the corridors of the Los Angeles as men ran for their duty stations, and all interior lighting went to red.

“Control Center, Sonar. Hostile’s stopped engines. Bearing still oh-one-four, range now twelve hundred yards.”

“All stop,” Taylor said.

“Aye aye, Skipper, all stop,” Garrison said.

As the sub slowed, Taylor visualized the position of the Winter Storm, which they had identified and had been tracking for the past hour. The CIS submarine had ignored them, maintaining its deep search pattern northeast of the impact point, until they closed within 2,000 yards.

Then it had made a climbing, evasive turn, and abruptly shut down all its systems.

Sitting silent.

Waiting.

Waiting for the American submarine to demonstrate its intentions.

Taylor showed his intentions by surfacing.

He could not imagine ever taking such an action, based on his training, but he also could not think of a clearer way to express his desire to talk.

The Los Angeles broke the surface, and Garrison unbuttoned the hatch into the conning tower. Taylor scrambled up the ladder behind him.

The early-afternoon sun was blotchy, struggling to get its rays through a thin overcast. To the west, the cloud bank was heavier, thicker, darker. The seas were running long, high swells. There was a wind out of the northwest that Taylor gauged fairly steady at ten miles per hour.

They waited.

Taylor felt vulnerable.

Garrison had donned a headset and plugged into one of the sail’s extensions.

“Sonar reports they’re coming up, Skipper.”

“Good. But let’s keep everyone alert.”

The CIS submarine cleared the surface about a half mile away to the northwest. It was clearly a Sierra-class boat, larger than the Victor IIIs, and equipped with the bullet on top of the vertical rudder. That strange-looking cylinder had been attributed to anything from a towed sonar array to a supersecret, ultrasilent propulsion system.

“Ahead one-third,” Taylor said.

Garrison repeated the order, and the Los Angeles gained headway and began to move.

The Russian waited for them.

Taylor raised his binoculars to his eyes, adjusted the focus, and found the heads of three men peering over the top edge of the sail. All three were staring back at him with their own field glasses.

He lowered the binoculars. “They’re suspicious of us, Neil.”

“Hell, Skipper, I’m suspicious of us. You want me to get a photograph of that fin housing?”

“No. Let’s not play naval intelligence this time.”

The bow of the Winter Storm came slowly around to the west as they approached, allowing the Los Angeles to come directly alongside.

When they were ten yards apart, Taylor ordered reverse to stop their forward movement, then minimal forward power to maintain their heading.

The Russian did the same, and the two subs crawled through the sea side by side, but rising and falling by as much as eight feet in relation to one smother in the heavy seas.

“You didn’t manage to learn any Russian last night, did you, Neil?”

“I tried, Skipper. No luck.”

Taylor raised his loud hailer. “I am Commander Alfred Taylor, captain of the United States submarine Los Angeles.”

The response was made a trifle ragged by the wind, and the English was stilted, but Taylor heard, “Captain Mikhail Gurevenich … Storm.”

So far, so good.

They had not lied to each other yet.

“Captain Gurevenich, I invite you aboard my boat for a short meeting.” Taylor spaced out the words, hoping he was understood above the wind and the translation problems.

There was a hurried confab among the three officers, then a dinghy was brought up onto the afterdeck.

Garrison ordered a greeting party out onto their own afterdeck, and Taylor followed with the instruction to stand down from General Quarters.

Fifteen minutes later, Captain Gurevenich was led into the wardroom, and Taylor met him with a salute. Gurevenich returned the salute, and Taylor offered his hand.

After a moment’s hesitation, the CIS captain agreed to the handshake. He had a hard, callused hand.

“Captain, this is my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Neil Garrison.”

“And the Winter Storm’s navigation officer, Lieutenant Kazakov.”

He was young and had a large bruise on his forehead, and Taylor guessed that he was a newly assigned officer. Taylor assumed the executive officer would be required to stay aboard the CIS sub.

Taylor waved them toward seats at the table. “Would you care for coffee, gentlemen?”

“That would be very nice, Captain Taylor.”

The nod offered by the junior lieutenant suggested that he also understood English.

After the steward had poured mugs with steaming coffee and withdrawn, Taylor said, “This is an unusual meeting for me, as it must be for you.”

A nod.

He took a long sip of the coffee, followed by an approving smile.

“I want to assure you that we have come with the sole purpose of assisting you in the recovery of your nuclear reactor.”

Now that got a response from the young guy. His face paled, and he looked toward his captain.

Taylor glanced at Garrison. His exec had also noted the reaction.

“We do appreciate your offer,” Gurevenich said, “but I believe my government has already notified yours that the recovery of the rocket is expected to be routine.”

That was a parroting of superior instructions, if he had ever heard one, Taylor thought.

“In any event, Captain Gurevenich, we are going to be in the immediate vicinity, and we will be happy to share with you anything we learn.”

“That is gracious of you.”

“If you have not already identified them, the submarines Houston and Philadelphia will also participate in the exercise.”

“We have identified them,” Gurevenich said, again sipping the coffee.

“Neil.”

Garrison passed a chart to the Russian commander.

“That is the pattern we intend to follow, so you will know who and where we are, Captain.”

Gurevenich quickly scanned the chart. “Yes. This will be of assistance.”

“What could possibly be more helpful is if you would share with us what you have already discovered,” Taylor suggested. “We would not be reinventing a few wheels, perhaps.”

With a fleeting glance at the little lieutenant, Gurevenich said, “I am afraid that is impossible at this moment. I would have to confer with fleet headquarters.”

Taylor had the distinct feeling that the response was not one Gurevenich wanted to make.

“Yes. I can understand. Neil, do you have the other chart?”

“Right here, Skipper.” Garrison produced the chart that had been transmitted to them only a few hours before.

Gurevenich looked it over with more interest than he had shown in the search plan.

“That was put together by oceanographers aboard the research vessel Orion, Captain. It is a compilation of exploration maps from expeditions in the region over the past fifteen years, and it identifies geologic structures and shipwrecks of which you may not be aware.”

A small smile threatened the corners of Gurevenich’s mouth as he moved his forefinger about the chart, stopping to tap it in several spots. “I appreciate this very much, Captain Taylor.”

“As I said, we are quite willing to share. You are welcome to provide copies of that chart to your sister ships. And I might add that all United States vessels in the area have been ordered to secure their weapons systems.”

Gurevenich looked up, and this time, did smile. “That, too, is appreciated.”

“Would you like more coffee, sir?” Garrison asked.

“No. Thank you. We must return to our boat.”

They all stood, and Taylor shook hands with both of them again. “I would also like to pass on to you, Captain Gurevenich, the condolences of this ship, and of the United States Navy, for the men of the submarine Tashkent. It is a tragic event, and I am certain they were a gallant crew.”

“Thank you, Captain Taylor. It has been, indeed, a tragedy, and you are kind to think of them.”

Garrison slipped into the galley and came back with a three-pound can of Folgers.

“A gift from the crew of the Los Angeles to the men of the Winter Storm, Captain Gurenevich”

Both officers appeared pleased.

“Thank you, Commander,” Gurenevich said.

After a chief petty officer led them away toward the afterdeck hatch, Taylor said, “That was a nice touch, Neil. Thanks.”

“The coffee and the chart from the Orion were the only things that seemed to warm them up.”

“The dossier on Gurevenich says he’s an able commander, but I don’t think he’s allowed to do much on his own.”

“At least, not with that puppy he’s got in tow,” Garrison said.

“I think you’re right. Without him in attendance, we might have gotten some of his search data.”

“So what do we do, Skipper?”

“Just what we planned to do aboard the Kane. We follow our revised pattern.”

Taylor, Huck Elliot, and John Cartwright had refined the search procedures presented to them by CINCPAC, and then had further altered them when they received the charts from some oceanographer named Emry. The new pattern eliminated some fifteen square miles of search area.

As far as Taylor knew, Cartwright had not notified CINCPAC of the changes. Maybe he never would.

Taylor certainly was not going to mention it.

During the day, they had gained on the Orion, and the research vessel was now visible to the naked eye when it was light enough to see.

The Arienne was still in the same position, off the starboard quarter, and Curtis Aaron felt good about that. She was a newer and faster boat than the Queen, and she could have left them behind long before.

It had to mean that Mark Jacobs was conceding leadership to Aaron on this mission.

All day long, Aaron had been working toward that possibility, preparing alternative speeches. He was going to have an audience; he knew that. The radio had been alive with news reports filed from the scene. While there seemed to be few developments concerning the rocket and the nuclear reactor, it was very apparent that he would have an audience. Not only were there some fifty ships in the area, but a whole flock of international news people had descended. Sent, no doubt, to help Aaron spread his message.

The world was waiting for it, too. Civil disturbances created by anxious and angry protestors were erupting everywhere. They would want to know how to proceed, guided by an expert who was not afraid to go to the heart of the matter.

In the dark of the flying bridge, Aaron rested with his feet up on the instrument panel, stroked his beard, and contemplated all of the glorious possibilities.

Julie Mecom brought him a rum-and-Coke, and he thanked her.

Dawn Lengren, who was at the helm, gave Julie a dirty look.

Capt. Leonid Talebov used the ship’s public-address system to announce to the officers and men of the Timofey Ol’yantsev that their mission had some possibility of risk associated with it.

The rumors floating around the patrol ship had become rampant by the time Adm. Grigori Orlov, with the President’s assistance, had overruled Vladimir Yevgeni.

Oberstev was relieved, though he was not so certain that the announcement would alleviate any fears among the crew. They had been specifically prohibited from mentioning the September eighth estimate for a possible meltdown.

He had removed his uniform blouse and his shoes, and he was sitting on the bed in the captain’s cabin. Alexi Cherby-kov poured them each a small glass of Stolichnaya vodka and then took the chair at the captain’s desk.

When Talebov’s message was completed, Oberstev asked, “Do you suppose we shall ever overcome our distrust of the masses, Alexi?”

“Distrust, General?”

“Our fear of telling them what we are really doing.”

His aide considered the point for an extended moment, then said, “I believe we will, as soon as our actions are worthy of trust.”

Oberstev grinned. “Excellent. When will that occur, Alexi?”

“Perhaps with the next generation,” his aide said.

And Oberstev feared that he was correct.

When the knock came at the doorway, Oberstev called out, “Enter!”

The door pushed open tentatively, and Pyotr Rastonov poked his head inside.

It was a large head, topped with close-cropped dark hair, and featuring large, inquiring eyes.

“Come in, Captain.”

“I do not want to disturb you, General”

“Pour the captain a drink, Alexi.”

Rastonov accepted the drink gratefully. He stood in the middle of the small cabin, for lack of another chair, and took a sip.

“The Sea Lion?” Oberstev asked.

Rastonov was in charge of the submersible and its crew of scientists and oceanographers. “It will be ready in time, General.”

“Another problem, then?” Oberstev was beginning to see problems behind every motivation.

“After your intervention with Captain Talebov, General, Gennadi Drozdov was allowed to speak with Valeri Dankelov aboard the American research ship.”

“Yes, good. Was the conversation of value?”

“Dankelov sent us a map of the ocean floor that is a compilation derived from a number of explorations.”

“Excellent.”

“Well, uh, General, Colonel Sodur tells me we are to disregard it. He believes it to be an item of American disinformation.”

“And what do you think of it, Captain?”

“I find it plausible. I think it is accurate, and Gennadi Drozdov agrees with me.”

“Then use it.”

Rastonov nodded, but he was not through. “There is one thing more, General Oberstev.”

“Yes?”

Rastonov tapped his chest with his forefingers. “I, for one, and others among my team, are somewhat…concerned about who we report to…who is in charge.”

“I am an Air Force general officer, is that what you mean?”

“Partly, General. And we receive instructions from Colonel Sodur, Captain Talebov, Vladivostok.”

Oberstev had never had a field command, but he knew the problem. CIS military philosophy dictated that higher echelon commands set strategy, and simply by virtue of training, field commands were expected to perform in certain tactical ways, insuring victory in the field. All decisions were made at headquarters levels. In contrast, American philosophy allowed field commanders to make their own decisions on the scene, following only the general strategies devised by headquarters. The CIS rule book tended to fall apart in emergency situations.

And even in nonemergency situations. From the seminars and training sessions he had been required to attend at general staff workshops, he could not see that the planners and military bureaucrats had learned anything from the misadventures in Afghanistan.

“Thank you, Captain. I will see if I cannot clarify the chain of command.”

After Rastonov left, Cherbykov said, “Will it be possible, General, to clarify?”

“We are borrowing much from the Americans, Alexi, in economic and domestic issues. Perhaps it is time to borrow an American command structure.”

“You will speak to Orlov?”

“And demand full command and responsibility. It is my responsibility, after all.” With each day that went by, Oberstev was feeling the increasing weight of the catastrophe.

“The Navy may take exception to Air Force Command.”

“Yes.”

“And Admiral Orlov could relieve you of duty.”

Oberstev reached for his shoes. “We will see if he does.”