“So it goes boom?”
“Well, not like an atomic bomb, no. The heat and the pressure keep building until it reaches the meltdown stage and has to release its gasses somewhere. At Three Mile Island, they were released into a containment facility, so not much radioactivity got into the atmosphere. At Chernobyl, effective containment was lacking when the coolant system exploded. That lack of safety has been a major criticism of Russian reactor designs.”
“Same thing here, huh?”
“Maybe. Our experts think that, because of its lightweight design, and because of Russian design history, the Topaz Four doesn’t have effective containment. If the reactor runs wild, and the coolant system breaks down, the pressure may build enough to blow out the containment compartment. It will then release its radioactivity into the ocean currents, where it will slowly spread throughout the sea. Additionally, it will take around thirty years for the uranium fuel to lose its radioactivity. While it’s not quite as bad as a release into the atmosphere, where it spreads widely, it’s still not good. Water tends to dissolve the radioactive waste, but we’d still have a hell of a lot of dirty water following the Pacific currents. The problem isn’t a major explosion, Bull. The problem is thirty years of dissipating radioactivity.”
“That’s what Chernobyl’s doing?”
“No. At least, it’s not spreading the radioactivity. They went in afterward and poured concrete all around reactor number four. That sealed it, but it was a little too late. Thirty-one people died, and I suspect a lot more are at risk. In this case, we’re worried about the effects on marine life — fish, seals, seaweed, everything.”
“It could spread, huh?”
“I think so. It might envelope the entire ocean. And that means ecology, people, fishing, tourism, mining, drilling.”
“You’re going to seal this one?”
“We’ll try to retrieve it before it blows, and then we’ll let the big boys decide what to do with it.”
“You need any more help, Chief, I ain’t been doing much lately.”
“I appreciate that, Bull. If I need you, I’ll yell.”
The low sun reflected off the windows of the coast guard station on Point Loma, to their left. On the right, Brande could distinguish some movement on Coronado Beach. Sunbathers and swimmers who did not care about radiated surf. Or who maybe wanted to get in as many sun days as they could before something happened to spoil their avocations.
The long trip in from Harbor One had not eased Brande’s impatience. It was often that way. He suspected that his lazy, hazy days of youth, when the major activity of the year was the week the custom combiners came through to harvest the wheat, was the reason he had learned to crave action. The harvester gangs were to be envied. They were on the move, going somewhere, doing something, if only a brawl in a local, but strange, saloon. Brande’s hyperactivity was confined to driving a truck alongside a combine, accepting the discharge of golden wheat, and delivering the load to the grain elevator. In the evenings, he would take out the fifteen-foot, aluminum runabout with the 35-horsepower Evinrude that had been his first boat.
In the years after leaving Minnesota, Brande had gotten involved with snow skiing, skydiving, hang gliding and sports-car racing, in addition to his scuba and deep-sea diving. Anything that pumped the adrenaline a little faster. Most of his avocations had fallen by the wayside as his involvement in Marine Visions became total. He gave up a Shelby Cobra that he used to drive in road rallies in favor of the Pontiac Bonneville.
Brande stood in the small pilot house, his feet braced wide against the sway of the deck, and thought that he would have made the attempt on the Topaz Four by himself if he had had to do it that way.
He just needed to be doing something.
*
1216 HOURS LOCAL, VLADIVOSTOK
The Timofey Olʼyantsev put to sea even before the submersible Sea Lion was fully secured to her stern deck, aft of the stern gun turret. By the time the patrol ship cleared the breakwater and drove into Peter the Great Bay, it was making its top speed of thirty-two knots.
The skies were still overcast, a dead gray cement that pressed down inexorably on spirits. At any moment, Oberstev expected them to begin spitting snow particles.
Col. Gen. Dmitri Ivanovich Oberstev, as befitted his status, had been given the captain’s quarters aboard the ship, and the captain had displaced his first officer. Oberstev’s aide, Colonel Cherbykov, had been assigned to share the second officers’ quarters. Lt. Col. Janos Sodur had been placed in a second bunk installed in the engineering officer’s cabin.
He had, in fact, suggested that Janos Sodur wait in Vladivostok with Chairman Yevgeni and Admiral Orlov, but the chairman had insisted that, “Colonel Sodur is assigned as a liaison to my committee, General Oberstev. It is appropriate that he accompany you.”
And, therefore, Yevgeni had his ears close to Oberstev’s mouth.
Oberstev’s decision to board the patrol ship and accompany it to the area of operations had come after hours of sitting around the table in the converted Vladivostok officers’ mess, listening to the reports coming in, listening to Yevgeni attempt to overrule Adm. Grigori Orlov’s decisions, and twiddling his thumbs.
With the Olʼyantsevʼs captain, Leonid Talebov, Oberstev, Cherbykov and Sodur left the bridge and went down one deck and aft to the Combat Information Center.
In the semi-darkened compartment, the duty operations officer pointed out on the electronic map the positions of various ships.
The submarines Winter Storm and Tashkent did not appear because no one knew where they were. There were a few guesses, but they were not displayed.
There were now two new symbols on the screen, not identified.
“Lieutenant,” Oberstev asked, pointing out the targets, “What are these?”
“Our agents in Japan indicate that the Eastern Flower, a new oceanic research vessel, has departed Sagami Bay, Comrade General. It is said to have a completely new deep-diving submersible aboard. Then, in addition to the naval research vessels Bartlett and Kane, the CIS Consulate in San Francisco reported that the vessel Orion has left San Diego. Both positions on the map, General, are currently estimated since we have not yet had a satellite pass over either.”
“And in the AO?”
“A variety of shipping,” the duty officer said. “Sightseers, very likely, in addition to two U.S. Navy surface vessels.”
Oberstev removed his glasses and polished the lenses. Every new piece of information proved more dismal than the last. It was a circus that was gathering, and he foresaw that there would be accidents.
Accidents, barriers, obstacles he did not need, not if he were to recover from this incident and get the Red Star project back on course.
“Captain Talebov, what is your best estimate for our arrival in the AO?”
“It will be four days, General. On the morning of the seventh of October.”
“And the Americans?” Sodur asked. “When will they reach the area?”
“The Bartlett and the Kane may arrive by evening on the third,” the operations officer said.
“We are going to be too late,” Sodur lamented. “The Americans will steal our technology.”
Ignoring the pessimistic officer, Oberstev turned to his aide. “Alexi, what do we hear from Plesetsk?”
“Director Piredenko, with assistance from the nuclear laboratory, devised a computer model of the impact, General. The scientists believe that, no matter which side the payload compartment landed on, it is likely that...” — Cherbykov consulted his notebook — “the F-two-six module, which controls the solenoids that operate the control rods, would have been severely damaged. The computer model suggests that the control rods may have been moved to the ninety-six percent open position”
“Which means?” Oberstev asked, impatient at the details.
“The nuclear mass will rise to a supercritical state. The freon coolant, providing that the pumps continue to operate, may alleviate the heat
for several days.”
“Give me a date, Alexi. Please.”
“No earlier than 1800 hours, September eight, General.”
“And?”
“No later than 2400 hours, September nine,” Cherbykov reported.
To the obvious chagrin of every person in the combat information center. They all stared at Oberstev.
“Perhaps,” he said, “it is time to tell the world. The ships in the affected area should be warned.”
“I disagree, Comrade General,” Sodur said. “We have a great deal of time available to us, as yet. We will recover the reactor and neutralize it.”
The patrol ship’s captain cleared his throat and said, “I am not certain that you understand the difficulties involved, Colonel Sodur.”
“Our Navy has always vaunted its expertise,” Sodur countered.
“Our ability to make the recovery is not in question,” Leonid Talebov said, “but the amount of time in which to do it certainly is.”
“Then we should communicate with Chairman Yevgeni and listen to his recommendation.”
Oberstev was not the only one to stifle a sigh. They all knew what Yevgeni would say.
At most, they would have two days!
*
1630 HOURS LOCAL, HAWAII
The telephone rang in Overton’s room, jarring him from a nap that had been encouraged by three Mai Tais.
He rolled over on the bed, his bare back prickling from the stiff breeze pouring through the open French doors to the balcony, and grabbed at the phone.
“Wilson.”
“Ned, Will. I’ve got you a ride.”
“Plane to Midway?” Overton asked, hopeful.
“Nope. No boats available at Midway,” Nelson explained. “We managed to charter a cruiser out of Maui called the Oversight. Fitting, huh?”
Suspicious, Overton asked, “Who’s ‘weʼ?ˮ
“Well, it’s tough, finding boats that will go into the area. Expensive, too.”
“Come on, Ned.”
“Bunch of us got together, to share the cost.”
“Bunch of who?”
“Couple newspapers…”
There went his exclusive coverage.
“Couple radio stations … ”
And the immediacy.
“And three network camera teams.”
“Goddamn it!”
“Sorry, Will. You know how it is.”
Overton slammed the phone down.
*
1938 HOURS LOCAL, 32° 56' NORTH, 128° 39' WEST
Curtis Aaron was at the helm of the Queen of Liberty. Sometimes, he liked to take control.
The horizon ahead still carried the red hues of sundown, though the sun had disappeared some time before.
The seas were running smoothly, and the Queen, a sixty-foot wooden-hulled Chris-Craft that had been built in 1959, cut through them nicely.
Next to him on the flying bridge, under the canvas sun shield, Dawn Lengren studied the radar screen, her forehead pressed against the hood that protected the screen. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a skimpy halter top. Her leaning position gave him an instrument panel-lit view of her small cleavage, the shadows moving erotically over her skin. Aaron was aware of stirrings, and he was beginning to think about retiring for the night. Let someone else steer the barge for the next eight hours.
“Anything, Dawn?”
She sat back in the cushioned seat. “There’s lots out there, Curtis, but I can’t tell what’s what. They may be freighters and tankers.”
“We’re looking for a boat headed west.”
“I know that. I count seven on the thirty-mile scan. Look at it yourself.”
Aaron would not have known the difference himself. “No, I believe you. We’re bound to intersect them somewhere along the line.”
“Maybe Jacobs knows where he’s going,” Lengren said, implying that Aaron did not know.
He turned his head and looked aft on the right side. A half-mile away, the Arienne, a Greenpeace boat, was showing her running lights. No matter how Jacobs might snub Aaron from time to time, he had certainly been quick to follow him out of Santa Monica.
“I doubt it, Dawn. He’s keying on us.”
“Yeah, but … ”
Her voice was drowned out by the abrupt high-pitched roar of engines.
Aaron almost ducked.
A four-engined airplane shot overhead, headed west. Aaron would swear that it was less than a thousand feet above the water.
“Dumb bastard,” Dawn said.
*
1941 HOURS LOCAL, 32° 56' NORTH, 128° 40' WEST
The inside of the Navy C-130 Hercules was spartan. Wiring and hydraulic conduits snaked along the ceiling and fuselage walls. There were rattles, metal against metal. The rollers in the floor chittered. The four Alison turboprops roared throatily, dissuading attempts at conversation.
Brande sat in one of the pull-down, canvas seats against the left side of the cavernous cargo bay. He wore a set of headphones that diminished the noise of the engines and let him listen in on the intercom chatter of the crew and the radio dialogue of the pilots.
In front of him, centered in the bay, were Turtle and Gargantua. The smaller robot was aft, and both rested on wooden pallets. The floor and the aft, lowerable ramp were made up of aluminum rollers, and the pallets were locked in place by nylon tie-downs. Since they did not have any windows, the cargo master had lowered the ramp while in flight in order to give them a view, but the view was of an endless blue sea. The twilight had deepened into grayish gloom, and the sea looked like darkened concrete. Brande figured the surface was just about as hard as concrete.
Strapped around the perimeter of both ROVs was a heavy-duty polyvinyl sac which, with any luck at all, would be inflated by C02 cartridges at the proper time.
Brande was dressed in a dark blue wetsuit which had the MVU logo embossed above his left breast. On the canvas seat beside him was a battered white helmet that the Navy apparently did not mind losing since they had lent it to him with no proviso for its return. He was strapped into a deflated Mae West and main and reserve parachutes for which the Navy would probably bill him. His civilian clothes were packed into a small waterproof bag hooked to his belt.
Over the headset, he heard one of the pilots make a call, obviously on the marine band. “Orion. This is Baker Two Two.”
“Baker Two Two, Orion. I think we see your lights. The voice was female, and Brande thought it belonged to Connie Alvarez-Sorenson.
“I’ll blink them for you, if you do the same for me. We’re at nine-five-zero feet.”
“Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine,” she said and, after a moment, noted, “I’ve got you.”
“And I’ve got you,” the pilot said. Off the air, and on the intercom, he added, “I wish.”
“She’s married, Lieutenant,” Brande said.
“Always my kind of luck, Mr. Brande. I’m going to make a wide three-sixty, and then we’ll come in directly over the ship. Ejection will be a mile ahead of her. You’ll get greens in about six minutes.”
“Fine by me,” Brande said. “Thanks for the ride, Lieutenant.”
“Good luck, sir.”
Brande released his lap belt and stood up. He exchanged the headset for the helmet, pulled it on, and tightened the chin strap. He bent over and struggled with his flippers, finally slipping the straps behind his heels.
He felt bulky and clumsy in the parachute harness and life vest.
As the plane went into a shallow bank, the cargo master made a trip around each of the ROVs, releasing all but one restraining line.
“Need any help, sir?” he asked Brande.
“I think I can hobble my way out, Chief.”
Lifting his feet high to clear the swim fins, Brande worked his way back to the ramp. When the chief petty officer lowered it to slightly below level, he stepped out onto it, walked halfway out, and waited, hanging onto the hatchway jamb with a firm grip.
The
windstream whipped at the mass of his gear and stung his eyes.
Peering out, he could see the lights of several ships behind, to the east. The sea was almost dark now, the altitude deceptive. It was going to be a short fall, and he was not going to have time for sightseeing, anyway.
Looking back, he saw that the cargo master had turned on the white strobe lights attached to the top of each ROV. His eyes had become accustomed to the softly red-lit interior of the bay, and each flash of the strobes felt like fire. Brande checked to make sure his six-celled flashlight was strapped tightly to his harness.
Pulling the Plexiglas visor down, he looked up at the jump lights.
The red was on.
He shifted his head and returned to staring out the back of the aircraft.
The red and green running lights of Orion passed directly below.
The jump lights went green.
The cargo master released the restraint on Turtle as the nose of the C-130 tilted upward.
Turtle rolled backward on the floor rollers, hesitated crossing onto the ramp, rolled some more, went past Brande, and dropped off the end of the ramp.
The static line connected to the overhead cable in the cargo compartment went taut, then slackened and streamed out behind the Hercules.
Seconds later, Brande saw the white mushroom bloom in the night, below and behind them. The locator strobe light winked at him. He could not see whether or not the inflatable pods deployed.
He crossed his fingers.
Gargantua began lumbering down the incline. Brande could feel the vibration through his feet as the 3,000-pound monster crossed the ramp, passing within two feet of him.
Plunged off the end.
Static line jerked straight.
Brande gave the sergeant a thumbs-up, and the man signaled an okay with his thumb and forefinger.
Brande released his grip on the doorjamb, took five giant steps, and fell off the end of the ramp.
The windstream flattened him immediately, he counted to two, and pulled the ripcord.
Ultra Deep Page 15