Ultra Deep

by William H. Lovejoy

  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.

  *

  0815 HOURS LOCAL, WASHINGTON, DC

  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.

  *

  1455 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 58' NORTH, 178° 32' WEST

  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.”

  *

  1850 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 40" NORTH, 176° 10' 58" EAST

  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, th
ough 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.”

  *

  1923 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 8" NORTH, 176° 10' 6" EAST

  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.

  *

  2016 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 41' 34" NORTH, 179° 52' 18" EAST

  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.