Ultra Deep

Chapter Twelve

“My inclination, General Oberstev, is to remove you from command,” Adm. Grigori Orlov said. “I am supported in that by Chairman Yevgeni.”

It would be the only issue the two had ever agreed on, Obserstev thought.

“However, after discussions with the general staff at Stavka and with the President, it has been decided that the situation is entirely unique. As you are familiar with the rocket and the reactor, you are to be named field commander for the duration of the recovery operation.”

After the screaming argument Obserstev and Orlov had gotten into the night before, the admiral’s controlled voice and tone was unexpected this morning.

Gurevenich acknowledged the change in attitude, even if it was dictated from higher authority, by displaying his own courtesy. “Thank you, Admiral Orlov. I appreciate your support in this, and I assure you that the mission will run much smoother with communications lines that are clearly drawn.”

“I will be satisfied when the reactor is on the deck of the Timofey Olʼyantsev,” Orlov said. “Confirming written orders for your assignment will be forwarded to all ships. And Chairman Yevgeni reminds you to heed the counsel of Colonel Sodur.”

Not bloody likely, Obserstev thought. “By all means, Admiral.”

Both of the flag officers signed off the scrambled radio frequency, and Obserstev replaced the microphone on its desk pedestal.

Col. Alexi Cherbykov said, “My congratulations to you, General.”

“Let us not be premature, Alexi. Orlov mentioned my expertise with nuclear reactors.”

“Yes, he did. Actually, what he said was your, ‘familiarity’.”

“I have never even touched a nuclear reactor. And we did not bother bringing such experts with us.”

“I will call Plesetsk and have a team assembled, Gen. They can be on instant call, if they are needed.”

“‘If,’ Alexi? Let us say ‘when,’ please.”

Brande wanted everyone to rest today, but unable to sleep or sit, Valeri Dankelov climbed the companionway to the bridge, then asked to use the radio compartment. He sat at the console and pulled the microphone close.

His call was immediately answered by the Olʼyantsev’s communications operator, but it took several minutes to locate Gennadi Drozdov.

He had met Drozdov at a conference in Paris in 1988, and they had subsequently stayed in touch with each other, occasionally sharing ideas and theories in regard to the acoustic control of robots.

The Orion did not have direct satellite telephone communications with the Soviet ship. They would speak on an open radio frequency, subject to monitoring by any number of people and nations, and Dankelov had learned in his first, short conversation with Drozdov to be cautious in what he said. Though Dankelov had not learned a great deal from the Russian scientist in their first contact, he had managed to at least establish a dialogue.

“Valeri, are you there? Over.”

“Yes, Gennadi. Good morning. Over.”

There was some static which interfered with a clear understanding of each other’s speech. After several exchanges of pleasantries, they achieved a rhythm which allowed them to drop the technical “over” at the end of each transmission.

“Valeri, can you tell me where you are located?”

“Not precisely,” Dankelov said. “I have not been paying attention. I believe it will be another twenty-four hours, or more, before we arrive.”

“We should reach the impact point early in the morning, I think. But we are prepared. The equipment is ready.”

“Will you use the Seeker vehicle, Gennadi?”

The hesitation before the response came told Dankelov that Drozdov had a monitor, someone to tell him yes or no in regard to his topics.

“Yes. You already know of it. We have spoken before.”

“I remember, though not all of the details. It has video, sonar, and manipulator arms, does it not? Similar to our Atlas with the exception of sonar capability.”

Another pause. “Yes.”

“And tethered control?”

“No. No longer. We…” Another pause, while an argument took place, then Drozdov continued, “We have installed the phase four model of the Loudspeaker acoustic control system.”

Dankelov had not known that the Loudspeaker system was already in its fourth generation of design. “You are finding success?”

“Immense success, Valeri.”

“I am jealous,” Dankelov said. He decided to reveal something of Brande’s plans, to encourage whoever was listening to Drozdov’s end of the dialogue that information sharing was a two-way street.

“My own system, called, if you remember, Tapdance, is not yet operational. We will be using the DepthFinder, towing SARSCAN, for the search phase.”

“Is this the SARSCAN model we spoke of last April?”

“No, Gennadi. We still do not have a video capability.”

“Therein lies the beauty of Loudspeaker Four, Valeri. We are acoustically transmitting video images.”

“Digital encoding?”

“Of course. We… ” Drozdov was interrupted again. When he finally came back, he said, “I must sign off now, Valeri. The radio is required for another task.”

“I understand. Perhaps we may talk again this afternoon?”

“I will look forward to it,” Drozdov said.

Dankelov signed off the frequency, but continued to sit in the operator’s swivel chair. He was, in fact, jealous of Drozdov’s advances in video transmission. Jealous, but also excited. The revelation had given him something new to think about, and he wondered how much he could learn from Drozdov before this operation ended.

The intricacies of Loudspeaker Four would be a State secret, naturally, but he hoped to discover what he could about the theory that had gone into it. Dankelov was not particularly concerned about knowing the actual schematics. He could develop his own.

He was not disheartened by the knowledge that Loudspeaker’s circuitry would be considered a CIS possession. Though he frequently longed to return to his homeland, he had learned a great deal about capitalism with which he happened to agree. While he felt no compunction about discussing abstract concepts, he would never reveal the patented designs owned by Marine Visions, himself and others. He could not rationalize any kind of fairness in such revelations.

He began to wonder if too much of the West had become ingrained in him.

Carl Unruh had slept for six straight hours in his own bed, next to his own wife, but he did not feel rested. He got back to the White House basement in time to take a call from the Deputy Director of Operations.

Patterson asked, “Is the boss around?”

“Which one?”

“Stebbins, you ass.”

Unruh placed his hand over the mouthpiece and called out to the men and two women lolling around the Situation Room. “Anyone seen the DCI?”

“Upstairs with the President,” Denise Something-or-other told him. She was with the State Department, but he did not know in what capacity.

“He’s closeted with the big boss, Oren. You got something hot?”

“Yeah, maybe. Can you get him out?”

“I can try.”

“Well, hell, skip it. I guess you’re in operational charge, right?”

“Mark mentioned something to that effect,” Unruh said, looking around the room at the people who mostly ignored him, “but I don’t think it means much to the group assembled here. You want to trade places?”

“Emphatic no.”

“So what do you have?”

“Computer tape”

“Good one?”

“I don’t know. It turned up at the embassy in Moscow after a trip across the country from Plesetsk.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I don’t think so, Carl. It’s nothing the embassy can interpret, and rather than wait for it to ship out in the diplomatic bag, I told them to do a direct data transfer of what’s on the tape.”

“To where?”

“Fort Meade.”

“Okay, good. What do you think is on it, Oren?”

“If it came from the Cosmodrome, it may be what we’re looking for. We’re doing the transfer by microwave relay, in the clear, because I don’t want to take the chance of destroying it by trying to encode it. I don’t give a damn if Moscow Center overhears us.”

“I agree. How soon?”

“They’re going to transmit as soon as NSA is ready to accept it.”

“I’ll go up to the Office and knock on the door. What are they going to need out there?”

“I’m damned if I know. It might just be data, or it might be an applications program, or it might be both. If it’s what we want it to be, we’ll need computer, aerospace, and nuclear experts. Maybe some computer people who are intimately conversant with the Russian language.”

“You’ll get them,” Unruh said, dropping the phone in its cradle and heading for the door.

Kaylene Thomas and Okey Dokey had been the designated inspection team for the two o’clock rounds of the ROVs. They found a weak battery aboard Atlas, but otherwise, every system checked out.

Okey stayed behind to charge out the battery pack, and Thomas climbed to the bridge, then went aft to the guest staterooms.

Ingrid Roskens was not in the cabin they shared, and Thomas supposed she was down helping Larry Emry. Reports from some of the submarines were starting to filter in, channeled through the Kane to CINCPAC and the Orion. Like Ingrid and most of the people who were supposed to be resting today, Thomas was not very tired.

Spread across her bunk were the stacks of paper and folders she had been perusing.

She did not feel very much like reorganizing the company, either.

Since her embarrassing crying jag with Dane, she had been unable to focus well. Maybe it was the realization of the danger zone they were entering. Maybe it was something else.

In fact, she was pretty sure it was something else.

Closing the door, she peeled off her T-shirt and jeans, then her underwear, and sidled into the tiny bathroom for a quick shower. It was quick because Mel Sorenson had decreed a two-minute limit for the fresh water showers. He had threatened random, unannounced inspections if he heard showers running for longer than the allotted time.

Still, she felt refreshed when she came out. She toweled off, then found a pair of white shorts and an old, but hardy, blue blouse. Stacking the paper from the bunk on the deck next to it, she fluffed the pillow, then sprawled out.

And somebody rapped on the door.

“Iʼm asleep,” she called.

Til come back,” Brande said.

She sat up. “No, come on in.”

Brande pushed open the louvered door.

“I was lying when I said I was asleep.”

“I guessed that,” he said, taking a seat on the bunk opposite her. “How are you doing?”

She smiled weakly, “I’m coming to grips with reality, I guess.”

“It happens.”

She pointed at the stack of paper. “Iʼm rattled enough that I don’t even care about that.”

“That’s okay, too. Paper will always wait.”

His deep blue eyes probed her own. Was he looking for weak spots? Having second thoughts after her emotional scene?

“I feel kind of foolish,” she said.

“Why?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

“The president is supposed to maintain a strong, solid front.”

-“Hey, you’re doing fine, Rae. Be yourself. That’s what we all want. If you go making up a new role for yourself, you’ll disappoint some people.”

“Like you?”

“Not me,” he said.

There seemed to be a fair amount of sincerity reflected in his eyes. Nice eyes.

“Do you miss it?” she asked.

“Being boss? I thought I would, but damned if I’m not happier without it.”

She glanced down at his hands. They were big and scarred and presently at a loss for what to do with themselves. His fingers flexed. They looked incongruously gentle.

Thomas suddenly felt her throat flush. Her nipples hardened. She wondered if Brande was aware of that, but she was afraid to look down to check the front of her blouse, and his eyes did not leave hers, anyway.

“Dane…”

“Uh-huh?”

She was going to ask him about his wife, then quickly decided not to break her own spell.

“Ah, nothing.”

He reached out and took her hands in his own. She could feel the calluses on his fingers. Hard yet soft. Her stomach felt queasy.

“What?” he asked.

To hell with it.

You only get what you ask for. His grandma had probably already told him that one.

“You want to take a nap with me?”

His eyes widened, and his mouth went wide with a lazy smile.

“I’m not very tired,” he said.

“I’m not, either.”

“I’ll lock the door.”

“Damned good idea.”

At the northeast quadrant of the search area, the Los Angeles deployed a transponder.

The cannister was ejected from the Number Three torpedo tube and rose immediately to the surface where its radio antenna could function. The sub continued to cruise at a depth of sixty feet with its antenna deployed until Lt. (j.g.) Arthur Cover, who had the conn, was certain that the transponder was operating properly.

Lieutenant Cover then ordered a wide 180-degree turn and a gradual descent back to 2,000 feet, to resume the search. Alfred Taylor, who was watching the young officer closely, though not overtly, approved of Cover’s cautious maneuvers, though he did not say as much. That would come later, when he wrote Cover’s officer efficiency report.

Abrupt maneuvers were not recommended when they were towing the deep-diving sonar array.

Neil Garrison was taking a much-needed nap, and Taylor was taking his turn at the plotting table. He penciled in the start of their next leg. As approved by Cartwright on the Kane, they had rotated their search grid ninety degrees, working the legs east and west, at a right angle to the search pattern utilized by the Soviets. If the Winter Storm missed something, there was a chance that one of the three American subs might spot it.

The chart they were using was the one developed by the Orion. Ten miles to the south was a seamount with an elevation 3,470 feet below the surface of the ocean. The approximate shape was dotted in on the chart.

On their last pass, west to east, Chief Tsosie in sonar had reported a vague return of the peak and Taylor had thickened the northern part of the outline with his pencil.

Slowly, but surely, the chart would be confirmed and the geologic structures marked more boldly.

“Depth one-two-hundred,” the planesman intoned.

“Control, Sonar.”

Taylor stepped away from the table and depressed the wall-mounted intercom button.

“Control. Go ahead, Chief.”

“The Winter Storm is making a turn to the south, bearing oh-one-oh, range one-two-thousand yards. Philadelphia has made her turn and is running parallel to us, range two thousand.”

“Depths?” Taylor asked.

“I put the Soviet at two-one-hundred feet, Skipper. Our sister is at two thousand.”

“Thank you.”

Taylor went back to the table and moved two small, circular magnets. One was red, and the other was blue. The magnet representing the Los Angeles was also blue. The Houston was far to the south, working its way northward.

“Depth one-six hundred,” the planesman reported.

The commander liked using the old-fashioned charts and symbols for monitoring his, and others’, progress. While the whole scenario was up on one of the computer screens in the electronic warfare room, he preferred his hands-on method. It made the exercise seem less like one he might find in a video arcade.

“Depth one-nine hundred.”

Taylor heard steel plates creaking.

“Begin to level off, planesman” Cover ordered.

“Aye aye, sir, leveling off.”

BLOOF!

It was not very loud, just a dull, crunchy thud.

Taylor whipped his head around to look at the status board. He picked out the red light just as the alarm sounded.

He heard water.

The engineering officer’s voice came over the intercom,“Skin rupture, Control.”

“Planes full up,” Taylor said, “Full speed ahead.”

Both Cover and the planesman responded immediately. The deck tilted upward.

Taylor could hear feet pounding in the corridors. The watertight doors were slamming all around.

“Control, Engine Room.”

Taylor depressed the button, “Report, Lieutenant.”

“We’ve got a major split, Skipper. On the starboard side, main deck level, in the machinery rooms. We’re taking on water fast”

“Clear the machinery spaces.”

“Four more people and we’re cleared,” the engineering officer said.

“Reactor room’s sealed,” Cover reported.

Neil Garrison slid his way into the control center. He took one look at the status board, then headed aft, through the electronic warfare compartment, toward the nuclear, machinery, and engine rooms.

“How bad?” Taylor asked of the intercom.

“Chief Killy estimates a thousand gallons a minute, Skipper. Worse, it’s coming in on both decks of the machinery room. We’ve got all the pumps going.”

“Depth one-seven hundred,” the planesman called out.

Taylor could visualize that ice cold seawater hitting hot generators, compressors, piping.

The vibration in the deck was noticeable now that the shaft was coming up to full speed revolutions.

Drive this baby up, Taylor said to himself.

The lights flickered, went out, came back.

Flickered again, died.

Generators gone.

The emergency, battery-powered lights came on, spreading a reddish glow through the control center.

Two minutes.

“Depth one-five hundred.”

“Skipper, this is Garrison.”

“Where are you, Neil?”

“Engine room. I splashed my way through machinery”

“Situation?”

“I think our rupture has lengthened. We’re taking water in the lower engine room now.”

“Get everyone out and seal it,” Taylor ordered.

“Under way. We’re going to have water in the shaft bearings soon, Al.”

“Give me an estimate.”

“Five, six minutes.”

“Depth, one-four hundred.”

If the propeller shaft seized, they would not be able to drive their way upward on the diving planes. With the machinery rooms engulfed, they would begin losing their compressors, pumps, and generators.

“Blow all ballast,” Taylor ordered. “Emergency ascent.”

“Aye aye, sir. Blowing ballast,” Cover said.

The compressed air tanks released their high pressure air, forcing seawater from the forward ballast tanks. The bow took on a higher cant.

Taylor gripped the edge of the intercom box to keep from sliding on the deck.

It was amazingly quiet. His well-trained crew had come out of their bunks and off their normal duty assignments and taken up emergency stations at the first chirp of the alarms.

Taylor listened.

“Depth one-one hundred,” the planesman reported. “Compressors operating,” Cover said.

They were replenishing the air reservoirs used for dumping ballast.

“Chief Killy says we’ve got a hot shaft,” Garrison reported from the engine room. “We’ve got to take some turns off, Skipper.”

“Do it. Sitrep?”

“Machinery rooms fully submerged. We’ve lost all our pumps. Lower engine room sealed and still taking water.”

“The air compressors just went down, Skipper,” Art Cover said.

The nuclear officer spoke up quietly on the intercom, “Skipper, the reactor’s shutting itself down.”

Over the intercom, Taylor heard a growing, then grinding screech. In seconds, it began to die away.

“I ordered the engine shut down,” Garrison said.

“Depth one thousand twenty feet. Rate of ascent, zero.”

Wilson Overton had been invited to the bridge of the Bronstein, though he felt very much the unexpected and unwanted visitor.

That was all right. He had a thick skin.

A lieutenant commander named Acery was his escort, designated after his credentials had been investigated. Acery had found him a cramped compartment for sleeping, a chair in the officers’ wardroom for meals, and a stool to use on the bridge. Overton had taken up a post just outside the door to the communications compartment.

It was pretty damned boring.

There was not much to see. To the southwest, the armada of civilian ships were beginning to illuminate their running and anchor lights. It was an unbelievable collection of yachts, sailboats, freighters, trawlers, seagoing tugs and smaller boats. To the west, north of the main group of ships, was the CIS cruiser and her escorts. They had not changed position since their arrival.

The Bronstein and the other U.S. Navy ship, a gunboat, kept circling the perimeter. There were rumors of submarines in the area, but Overton had not seen one. He had heard the story of the CIS sub surfacing, and he had heard about a CIS sub sinking, but the ship’s captain had refused to take him to the site of the sinking.

Overton had already filed one story, using the Bronsteinʼs satellite relay telephone. He had been told that it was relatively private, and while, yes, they had scrambling equipment available, it was not available to civilians.

He was about coffeed out, and he thought longingly about his bottle of Chivas Regal Scotch, now resting in somebody’s secured locker. It had been confiscated from his bag as soon as he had boarded.

“Bridge, Comm,” came over the intercom.

“Go ahead, Comm,” the watch officer said.

“We’ve got an emergency.”

Overton rose from his stool and slipped back into the communications compartment, staying just inside the doorway and well away from the consoles, as he had been told.

“You’ll have to leave, sir,” an ensign told him. “We have an emergency under way.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Please, sir.”

He went back to the bridge.

The watch officer was standing next to the intercom. “Sorry to disturb you, Captain. We’ve picked up an SOS from the Los Angeles. She’s taking on water fast and is in danger of foundering.”

Overton could not hear the captain’s reply.

The watch officer turned to his helmsman, “Come about to zero-four-two. All ahead full.”

He got a chorus of “aye-ayes,” in return, and Overton got out his notepad.

Finally, some action.

The Orion crossed the international date line shortly after eight o’clock at night.

Paco Suarez was in the radio shack, Fred Boberg was on the helm, and Mel Sorenson had the watch. Brande, Dokey, Emry and Thomas were also on the bridge.

It was crowded, but Brande was not ordering anyone off the bridge.

An hour and five minutes had elapsed since Suarez had heard the SOS from the Los Angeles. He was currently scanning half a dozen military channels, and the low-volume chatter from the radio shack was a modern-day Babel. The primary channels had been cut into the public-address system so that ship’s crew and the team members gathered in the wardroom could also track events.

Brande was in his customary position to the right of the helm, staring ahead into the night. They were at midpoint in the time zone, and the sun had already departed, leaving a faint rosy glow in the overcast ahead of them. The seas were running heavy, long swells that rose five feet and more. Emry’s low pressure system and the Orion were going to meet right in the impact zone.

Emry, Sorenson, and Thomas were bent over the chart table located on the port side at the back of the bridge. One of the technicians manning the radar/sonar compartment called out the coordinates of ships as he picked them up. Sorenson plotted their latest position, provided by the satellite navigation system.

“How far off course would we have to take it, Mel?” Thomas asked.

“Where we are now, we’d have to come starboard a couple points, darlin’.”

“Do it, then,” she said.

Sorenson straightened up. “Fred, let’s take a heading of two-five-eight.”

“Two-five-eight cornin’ up, Captain.” Boberg leaned across his wheel and adjusted the autopilot. On the Orion and the Gemini, the helmsman was the backup to the electronic systems. Tied into the NavStar Global Positioning Satellite system, the autopilot could maintain a truer course than any human. Humans reacted much better to emergencies, however. Their thinking was not programmed.

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.

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.”

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.”