Ultra Deep

Chapter Fourteen

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.

“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…”

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.

When she looked behind her, the deck seemed strangely vacant without the submersible in place. She had been down for several hours now, crewed by Emry, Roskens and one of the interns, Rich Bellow. They were reporting new geologic structures, no metallic contacts, and smooth running to the surface operations control now set up in the laboratory.

On the surface, all around Otsuka, was an ocean that was far less smooth. She estimated the wave tops at ten feet, perhaps higher. When the ship went into a trough, the wave peaks were at levels above her head. The noise of the wind competed with that of the sea, when a wave crashed against the hull. There was no sun visible. The skies were overcast in streaky gray and silver. It was not raining, but the impression was that a slanting, wind-driven deluge would begin at any moment.

Also all around her, when the Orion rose high enough for her to see, were six or seven boats and ships. They had converged on the RV almost as soon as she had entered the target zone. Directly abeam was a magnificent 100-foot yacht out of Hong Kong, ablaze with lights in her salon. Yellow-slickered people on the stern deck stared at her, and she could not tell if they were supporters or detractors. They had television cameras, and occasionally trained one on her.

She ignored it.

Aft, promising to interfere with the recovery of the Depth-Finder when it returned to the surface, was a teak-hulled junk, its drab exterior appearance probably in total disagreement with an opulent interior. The Orientals aboard had cheered when the submersible had first been lowered into the depths.

Otsuka absorbed her environment with her peripheral vision. Her eyes were focused into the gray seas as she wrestled with her feelings.

“Kim?”

She turned to find Dokey standing in the doorway to the lab, holding the steel door open against the wind. He stepped out, let the door slam, and stepped across the narrow deck to stand beside her.

“I wish to be alone for a while, Okey.”

“Understandable, with the bunch of people we’ve brought along,” he said. “Not particularly understandable when applied to me.”

She smiled at him. “Please?”

“You tell me the problem, then Iʼll leave you to mull it over.”

For some reason, she did not even try to keep it from him. She told him about her telephone call.

“Well, shit! What assholes!”

“What do I do, Okey?”

He put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her hands from the railing, and turned her toward the door.

“First, we get inside where there’s less risk of my having to go over the side to rescue you, which would probably be a flop, anyway.”

She walked with him, lurching once as the Orion’s bow rose to climb the slope of a wave. Dokey pulled the door open, ushered her in, and directed her toward the operations center at the forward end of the lab.

On a long workbench, Larry Emry’s computer terminal for tracking the search and several radio sets had been set up. There was a line direct to the bridge, a radio tuned into the Kane’s command net, a radio for other communications, a telephone tied into the satellite link, and the acoustic telephone that was their only contact with the crew of the submersible.

While they were supposed to rest between deployments of the DepthFinder, most crew and team members not on other duty were gathered around the workbench, kibitzing over Svetlana Polodka’s shoulders. She was the duty officer on the desk, maintaining communications with all of the vessels concerned. From an overhead speaker, Tchaikovsky’s The Seasons was playing at low volume. Polodka had put it on to keep tensions down, she said.

In Emry’s absence, Bucky Sanders was handling the temporary chart. It was a large nautical chart of the search area, covered with plastic, and angled against the wall from the top of the workbench. Until the DepthFinder was brought aboard for crew and battery changes, and the recorder tapes could be recovered, significant findings were reported orally over the acoustic telephone, and Sanders indicated them on the chart with magic markers. When the recorded data was dumped to computer memory and replayed, it would be entered into the more permanent computer files.

The temporary chart was developed just in case the submersible was never recovered. It was a doomsday policy, but necessary just the same.

A separate video display terminal, controlled by a keyboard in front of Polodka, showed the current status of the submersible. Its time below, battery charges, equipment function levels and other data were listed in neat rows. At the top of the list was the current depth in feet. Otsuka automatically glanced at it: -17,782.

The submersible was on a heading of 090 degrees, due east on her second eastward pass since arriving. They were a third of a mile north of the impact point on this leg, after having run a westward leg a third of a mile south.

Bucky Sanders, wearing a headset so he could hear more clearly, was charting a small ridge that ran parallel to the submersible’s course. The peak of a dormant volcano had been pinpointed a mile to the north at 15,000 feet of depth. A dotted line running south had been labeled as the course of the Sea Lion. The Americans and the Soviets were moving at right angles to each other. Some things did not change, Otsuka thought.

Among the people gathered around Polodka were Brande and Thomas, and Dokey let go of her to slip into the crowd and tap both of them on the shoulder.

They turned to follow Dokey, and he took her hand as he passed, headed for the aft end of the laboratory.

“What did you find out about Kim’s passport status?” Dokey asked.

“The last time I talked to Hampstead,” Thomas said, “he told me that Washington had declined to interfere.”

“Those bastards can start wars, but they can’t even manage a little diplomatic bullying,” Dokey said.

“Okey…” Otsuka started to say.

“What’s up?” Brande asked.

“Her consulate just called to tell her that her passport has been revoked. We are to disembark her on the Eastern Flower.ˮ

“Bullshit!” Brande said.

Thomas’s face reddened, and she said, “All right. Let’s give them the program.”

“No, you must not,” Otsuka said.

“Have we heard anything about the Flower?” Brande asked.

“I was given the coordinates,” Otsuka said, “but the ship is not yet operating. The submersible is ready, but the sonar robot is malfunctioning. That is why they want the programming.”

“They’ve come to the show, but can’t perform,” Dokey said. “Well, fuck’em.”

“Can you contact them directly?” Brande asked.

“By radio or telephone.”

“Come on, let’s go find a private line.”

Brande led the way this time, and the four of them went forward to the wardroom and settled into the last booth.

Brande handed her the phone. “Make the call and the translations, would you, Kim?”

She spoke to Paco, who was manning the radio shack, and he made the connection with the Eastern Flower. After a short exchange, she found herself speaking in Japanese to a man named Inouye who claimed he was the expedition leader.

“Tell him we’re prepared to license the robot programming,” Brande said.

She passed it on, then told Brande, “He wants to know the cost.”

“So do I,” Dokey said. “Ream them out, Chief.”

“The cost is the immediate restoration of Kim’s passport and the requirement that the Eastern Flower report to, and follow the orders of, the RV Kane for the duration of the search.”

“Get two million bucks, too,” Dokey said.

“Amen,” Thomas added.

“No,” Brande told them.

Otsuka let her eyes widen as she repeated Brande’s demand in Japanese.

The response was short.

“The cost is too high.”

“That’s it, Kim. Tell him all or nothing.”

She translated, then waited.

And waited.

Finally.

“They agree,” she said, feeling the relief wash over her. Dokey took her free hand and squeezed it.

“As soon as we have word from your consulate that your passport has been restored, and as soon as we receive a telex confirming the arrangements, you can transmit the program to them,” Brande told her.

“Thank you, Dane.”

“We’ve got more important things to do than worry about money,” he said. “Right, Rae?”

She grimaced, but said, “Right.”

Otsuka relayed the instructions on to Inouye.

Dokey said, “Can I call the Kane and tell them we’ve forced a surrender?”

“Go ahead,” Thomas said. “Cartwright will be glad to hear from you.”

“Don’t be profane, please,” Otsuka told Dokey.

“Well, hell, hon, you’re talking all the fun out of it. And we didn’t even reach our next defensive position.”

“What was that?” she asked.

“We could have had olʼ Mel marry us.”

She looked up at him. “What? You don’t mean that?”

“Scout’s honor. Supreme sacrifice, and all that.”

From the look on Brande’s face, Otsuka was certain that Brande was also unsure about how serious Dokey was.

And Thomas’s face was immobile. Kaylene was trying to be so inscrutable since she had begun sleeping with Brande.

The DepthFinder was aboard for a crew and battery change, and Brande was aft in the laboratory. He, Otsuka, and Connie Alvarez-Sorenson — who had only made one previous dive — would crew the next stint.

Thomas was in the wardroom with the last of the lunch-break crowd. She was making a chocolate malt last. For some reason, on expeditions, but never ashore, she always got a craving for chocolate malted milk, and she stocked the galley accordingly.

Ingrid Roskens came out of the galley with a steaming cup of cocoa. “Hey, Kaylene!”

“Hi, Ingrid. Welcome back.”

“It was a breeze.”

“You look tired”

“I am tired. I was going to ask if I could use our cabin, but I guess it’s free until Dane gets back, right?” She winked at Thomas.

“Ingrid!”

“Ta ta, sweetie.” Roskens headed for the door.

Carrying her tall glass, she picked up her plate and silverware and returned them to the galley. She was about to leave the lounge and go check on Brande — was her silliness showing to everyone? — when she saw Dokey stretched lengthwise on one bench of the first booth. He was reading.

She crossed the wardroom and slid into the bench opposite him, placing her glass on the table.

He looked up, “Hi, Kaylene.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get through all of the material Miriam Baker gave me for homework.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“Actually, it’s not too bad. Some good stuff here.”

“Good for us?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted.

She sipped from her straw.

Dokey had his head resting on a wadded-up parka, and he had a Coke resting on his stomach. He moved the Coke and sat up.

“I don’t want to disturb you,” she said.

“You know me. I like disturbances.”

“I’m never sure if I do know you.”

“That’s a relief. If I get predictable, nobody will love me”

“Are those lyrics?”

“Hmmm,” he said. “Could be. I’ll have to find someone who can pound a piano with gusto and try it out. You want to talk, Kaylene?”

“Well, no. I just had a minute…”

“About Dane?”

“What about Dane?”

“We could switch places.”

“You and Dane switch places?”

“No, you and me switch places. I’ll move in with Ingrid. She’ll love it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, love. It’s a small ship.”

“Okey…”

“And believe me, no one gives a damn, Kaylene. Roll with it.”

“Okey, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Sure you do. You just haven’t realized it, yet.”

Thomas swung her head from side to side.

“Okay, let’s talk about nukes.”

“This particular nuke?” she asked.

“No. I don’t have any material on it. But,” he said, leafing through some photocopies and coming up with a stapled sheaf of paper, “I do have some data on the Topaz Two that I got from the Navy.”

“Let me see.” She reached for it.

“You’re not cleared.”

“Neither are you, damn it!”

“Oh. That’s right.”

He gave her the bundle and she thumbed through it. There were lots of diagrams and schematics.

“I’m lost already,” she said.

“It’s straightforward stuff. Our people just copied down what they found on the Topaz Two.”

“Is it a good design?”

“From a robot engineer’s point of view? It looks pretty efficient, but there are a few things I don’t like.”

“Like?”

“Like the operations module for the control rods.”

“Don’t get technical on me, Okey.”

“Jesus, hon! I’ll let you know if I get technical.”

“What don’t you like?”

“If they used the same design on this Topaz Four down there, I think we’ve got a problem.”

She studied his face carefully.

“There’s an integrated circuit that trips switches based on the information it gets from different sensors. Like a sensor that tells it the damned thing has crashed. I think it’s wired wrong. If it trips, it opens the control rods, rather than closes them.”

“Not good?” she asked.

“Disastrous”

“And no one has raised this issue?”

“Not that I know about,” Dokey said. “I don’t know why the nuclear experts haven’t mentioned anything. It’s a question I’d like to pose, anyway.”

Thomas slid out of the booth, went back to the last booth, and picked up the phone. Dokey followed her.

It took three minutes to track down Hampstead.

“Good afternoon, Kaylene.”

“We’ll know in a minute.”

“Uh-oh.”

She told him about the control module, the integrated circuit, and the wiring problem.

“Yes?” Hampstead said.

“Find out about it, goddamn it!”

“Yes, ma’am,” he told her.

Brande was at the controls of DepthFinder and Kim Otsuka was in the right seat, ʻflyingʼ SARSCAN with the controls in front of her. Connie Alvarez-Sorenson sat in the right-angled jumpseat behind them, monitoring the environmental and sonar recording systems.

SARSCAN did not have a great deal of maneuverability. Towed a couple of hundred feet behind and below them, it could be encouraged to climb or dive a little, or to draw off to one side or the other.

Alvarez-Sorenson’s primary job was to keep Brande aware of his altitude above the bottom, which he tried to maintain at a thousand feet. Otsuka’s primary goal was to fly SARSCAN at about 800 feet above the bottom, allowing the sonar to overlap the path of their last leg.

SARSCAN had been designed for intensive bottom searching, and the sonar did not have a lot of range, but it was very powerful and very accurate downward for a thousand feet and sideways for three thousand feet. The images it picked up were transmitted through the fiber-optic towing cable and displayed on the starboard screen in front of Otsuka. She had squelched down the audible ʻpingʼ sonar returns so they only sounded off if SARSCAN was within thirty feet of colliding with something solid and hard.

Her job included not letting SARSCAN hit anything.

They had just passed westward over the seamount that Captain Gurevenich had first reported. Its highest point was 6,011 feet below sea level, and a steep slope on the western side was falling rapidly. Brande had been slowly taking on ballast in order to descend with the slope.

The view through the forward portholes, lit by the floodlights, was limited to about thirty feet. All they saw at shallower depths was the occasional darting of a fish avoiding the strange new monster, imitated on the center CRT by the submersible’s video camera. On the port screen was the waterfall display of the DepthFinder\s forward-looking sonar.

The sonar outline of the sea bottom terrain ahead of them suggested an undulating landscape, getting lower on the left, or south, side.

“Report time, Connie,” he said.

“Right, Dane.” She picked up the acoustic telephone and spoke into it. “Who’s on the desk?”

The response could be heard on the instrument panel speaker. “Hey, darlin’, it’s me.”

“You’re the one who’s supposed to be guiding the ship, Mel. Remember?”

Her husband said, “With NavStar and with Kenji on the wheel, who needs me? I’m giving someone a break.”

“Okay, update time. We’re descending the western slope of the seamount. Position same latitude, longitude now three-three seconds. Depth one-one-six-seven-seven. We’re showing a high ridge, maybe two-zero-zero higher, to the northeast. We got an outline of a possible wreck three thousand feet behind us and a thousand feet south. Magnetometer results were negative. We’ll check it on the next pass, but we don’t believe it ever flew before.”

Brande leaned back and Connie held the phone to his lips. “Mel, let’s mark that contact on our own chart, but keep it to ourselves, if it doesn’t prove out.”

“You thinking about our future, Dane?” Sorenson asked. “A possible dive site?”

“I haven’t got Rae here to do it for me,” Brande said, “so I’m playing goals-and-objectives.”

Alvarez-Sorenson took the phone back and said, “We’re out for now.”

Brande was starting to get cold again. It was never possible to find a comfortable temperature. They dove wearing two pairs of woolen socks, a pair of long johns, and the standard jumpsuits. As the temperature cooled off at depth, they donned thick sweaters.

Everyone looked bundled up and warm, but appearances were deceiving. The chill of the water at depth transferred through the pressure hull and fought the feeble efforts of the cabin heater.

“How are you doing, Kim?” Brande asked.

“I’m fine, Dane.”

Flying the sonar array took a great deal of concentration and could fatigue operators quickly.

“You get tired,” Alvarez-Sorenson said, “just let me know, and I’ll switch places with you. I need to learn how to fly that baby.”

“You giving up surface travel, Connie?” Brande asked.

“I’m expanding my horizons downward.”

“All right. We’ll get you some time in the right seat.”

Brande scanned the ship control panel directly ahead of his joysticks — which were properly called the translation hand controller and the rotational hand controller. The panel contained a variety of readouts and gauges which translated the status of the vehicle for the operator.

Magnetic and gyro compasses kept him oriented in a horizontal direction. The depth readouts — distance to surface, altitude above bottom, rate of change, and depth of

vehicle — kept him aware of his vertical position and how fast he was changing it. There were tachometers for the port and starboard propellers, readouts for vertical thrust forward and aft in RPM and pounds, forward and aft lateral thrust in pounds, lateral speed through the water based on RPM, and Doppler speed over ground. Additional indicators monitored the pitch rate and pitch angle of the vehicle, the turn rate, the angle of the rudder and stem planes.

That was one instrument panel. Considering that there were fifty-five small and large panels in the forward end of the submersible, there were enough readouts, monitors, light-emitting diode indicators, switches, cathode ray tubes, and rheostats to keep a Boeing 747 pilot happy for hours.

Since they continued to dive, following the slope, Brande reset the trim tabs on the diving plane.

Though he knew that Connie Alvarez-Sorenson was watching the warning light panels, Brande automatically scanned them every couple of minutes. It was habit.

An hour later, they were at 17,000 feet of depth, and Alvarez-Sorenson had made four more reports to the Orion. They had encountered nothing particularly startling. Brande likened it to driving across Iowa and Nebraska, a rather monotonous landscape. Or seascape.

Occasionally, SARSCAN pinged them when it picked up a small peak or rock outcropping that entered the thirty-foot range of the sonar. Then Otsuka would lean forward, concentrating on her video screen, easing the hand controller back or to one side as she dodged the obstruction.

He stabilized the sub for a few minutes while Otsuka and Alvarez-Sorenson changed places. In the confines of the pressure hull, the exchange was the major feat of their dive so far. He got back under way, and Otsuka spent thirty minutes supervising the new operator in the handling of SARSCAN.

Brande thought that Alvarez-Sorenson was something of a natural with the remote controls. In the back of his mind, he was already setting up a training schedule for her, working next into Sneaky Pete, who was a great deal more maneuverable and sensitive to the controls since the ROV had its own propulsion systems. Then Turtle, Atlas, and Gargantua.

The big ROV would require a Great Debate, of course. To date, only Dokey and Andy Colgate, back at Harbor One, had gotten their hands on Gargantua.

During the routine of following the search pattern, Brande’s training and automatic reflexes piloted the DepthFinder. Part of his mind was devoted to worry, and that was a first.

No previous dive had ever had a deadline placed on it, beyond perhaps that of encroaching weather or season changes or the condition of batteries. He was acutely aware that, in two days, the Topaz reactor could begin its deterioration into meltdown.

He would have a decision to make then. And he had pretty much decided that, no matter how the team might vote, he would not subject them to the risk.

Two days to find an elusive rocket.

He was also acutely aware of the limitations of sonar. If the rocket body had dropped into a depression, the sonar would never pick it out.

The odds were slightly better, of course, because the A2e would certainly have broken up after impact, perhaps into three or four large pieces. Not all of it would be hidden from the sonar.

He hoped.

“Kim, would you see if you can get hold of Dokey?”

Four minutes later, she handed him the phone.

“What’s happening, Chief?”

“Okey, you think you could fly both Sneaky and SARSCAN at the same time?”

“Rugged terrain, huh?”

“Yeah, there’s lots of hiding places. I think it might be a good idea to get both sonar and visual, if we can.”

“This calls for SARSCAN II,” Dokey said.

“Which we don’t have yet.”

“Who’s piloting?”

“Rae convinced me she’s supposed to take her turn. And Bob Mayberry is in the third seat,” Brande said.

“I’d use the portable joystick panel on SARSCAN, and if I got in trouble, I could pass it back to Bob. Yeah, hell, let’s try it.”

“Go ahead and set it up, then, Okey. What’s the weather like up there?”

“We picked up a couple knots in wind speed. Rain’s holding off, though.”

“All right, let’s make the change now, before it gets worse. We’re coming up.”

Brande reduced power on the propellers until the DepthFinder slowed to a stop, slewing sideways as it did. Then he reached forward, raised the plastic flap, and toggled the port weight release.

The sub lurched and felt more buoyant. It began to rise slowly.

He raised the other flap and flipped the switch for the starboard weight release.

Nothing happened.

Almost eight hours went by before Unruh called him back.

“What the hell’s going on, Carl?” Hampstead demanded.

“Well, Avery, I had to clear some things with some people, and most of the people didn’t want them cleared. It took a while.”

“Talk English.”

“Yeah. Dokey’s right on that control module. The Soviets call it the F-two-six module, and the same one is being used in the Topaz Four.”

“How do you know all of this, Carl?”

“Oh, we’ve picked up a few bits and pieces out of Plesetsk,” Unruh admitted.

He looked over at the nuclear experts, all bunched up around their own table in the corner.

“Do the NRC people know about this?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“And they haven’t raised hell?”

“No one knows what will really happen, Avery.” Hampstead stood up, taking the phone with him. He arched his back to stretch the tired muscles and then began to pace around one end of the table, at the full extension of the phone’s cord.

He was suddenly damned sure he had not been getting the full story out of Washington, but he did not know how long it had been going on.

“I’m going to recommend to Admiral Potter that we order all ships out of the target zone,” he said.

“What!”

“All civilian, naval, and research ships. Along with the submersibles, robots, everything.”

“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

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!”