by Sahara Foley
Dobie sets his cup down, leaning forward, not so much for friendliness, but so he won't have to yell over the noise from the ship engines. “Someone has plenty of explaining to do over this mess, Arthur. If you're wondering, the sub is not British, and as far as we can tell from what the American Ambassador is saying, it's not one of theirs either. In fact, he suggested we blow the damn grate apart, then see who the sub belongs to. Also, the PM wishes me to convey her deepest regards and thank you for this fantastic discovery, and of course, the Heathrow incident.” He gives the Admiral a meaningful look, leaning back.
“Sir, because of the delicacy of a military nature here, I must ask all civilian personnel to evacuate the area, for their safety, of course. That, I'm afraid, is you and Dr. Burns,” Admiral Nichols announces tight-lipped, looking down his long nose at us.
Shooting Dobie an icy-gray glare, I say. “Cecil, you had better get this straightened out. We aren't leaving here. We found the sub, and we'll see this through to the end. Besides, who in the hell do you have that's better equipped to handle whatever's down there than me?” Turning my icy stare, I continue, “And Admiral, Dr. Burns works for MI6, which I assume you know is part of your government services. I'm also on loan to MI6. So, Admiral Nichols, there aren't any civilians present that you need to be responsible for.”
He stands with a stiffened spine, peering authoritatively down at us, “Then, Mr. Merlin, I'll have to confiscate your passport, and hold you under arrest until this military situation is resolved.”
“Cecil, is he wearing a toupee?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Uh, ahem, Admiral Nichols, I told you this would be his response. He is working for me, so I guess technically he's a government employee. I will accept responsibility for them.”
“Uh, quite. Then, Commander, while I offload the Royal Marines perhaps you'll update them on our situation?” After Dobie gives a curt nod, he heads off down the beach, talking into a small radio.
“Damn Uniforms,” Dobie grumbles, “only know one way to do anything, by force. We'll have to keep an eye on him now. Besides, I'm in charge here, not the Navy.” He holds his cup out for more tea, and Ruth pours. “Anything happen last night, Arthur?”
Now, the truth comes out, I think ruefully. I've been anxiously waiting, hating the fact I'll have to admit I was wrong, plus being under his control.
“Uh no, sorry, Cecil. We were up all night watching, but didn't see anyone.” Ruth looks over at me, frowns, then winks. In her mind, I say, *You owe me one for falling asleep on guard duty.*
“Aha, not so, Arthur. Look at these.” Dobie pops a green cassette into the VCR camera. The title on the side of the cassette reads H. S. IR-100. He's cocky as he continues, “This cassette was filmed from down the beach there, about half a mile.”
Four men in black wet-suits wade out of the water, search over everything in our boat, then walk back into the water behind the boat.
“And look there, Arthur. See them?” Dobie asks, pointing at some figures on the screen.
In the trees behind and along each side of our tent, six, maybe eight more men, in the shadows. Tiny glints are reflections from rifles they're carrying.
“Armed support, in case the divers encountered trouble. Because the divers didn't run across any problems, they left. This incident was recorded at three-thirty this morning.” He removes the tape and pops a different one into the VCR.
Staring off into the trees by our tent, I think, damn. Three-thirty, right by the tent? That's the time I started feeling uneasy, as if someone were watching me. I even mentally scanned the area, but felt no one, and they weren't more than fifteen feet away from me. That's impossible. Reflecting over the past few days, I realize I can't lie to myself any longer. Whatever's affecting my powers is bad, I admit with a sinking feeling.
“Commander, Arthur attached a line and bell on the grate. No one could've opened the grate without Arthur knowing.”
Glancing gratefully at Ruth, I think, thanks, kid, for trying to hold up my end of this mess.
“Ahh. Ingenious, Arthur. But they didn't open the grate. Look here. This tape was filmed from up there in the rocks.” He pushes the button.
I watch in shock as the tape reveals the truth. “I'll be damned. They came down the river from the ocean. So there has to be another cave entrance somewhere, Cecil.”
“Correct. They were using extra precaution last night; they couldn't risk compromising the grate, so they came in the long way. I would say it's about a four mile swim, each way, by the river.”
Rubbing my forehead, I ponder, then those objects I saw on our camera I mistook for bugs were actually drops of water as they were searching our boat. I had positioned the camera facing the wrong direction.
“They were wearing dark wet-suits, and you would've been hard-pressed to see them at all against the background of the lake. They knew what they were dong, this is definitely a military operation.”
As Ruth was pouring Dobie more tea, she asks, “But whose military, sir?”
“Ah, we have more photos taken through nightscopes. Take a look at these.” From his suit jacket, he takes out a manila envelope, unfolds it and removes some pictures. There're thirty black-and-white photos, which show a little more detail in the dark than the tapes did.
“Now, look here. See those marks?” Dobie's pointing.
“Just barely, Cecil. What are they?”
“Hmm. I was rather hoping you'd be able to tell me. But our computer analysis suggests they're either the Canadian Maple Leaf, or possibly the Czechoslovakian Edelweiss. That's all the computer could suggest.” He folds the manila envelope, after he realizes I have no additional suggestions.
“Do the Canadians have submarines, Cecil?” I ask because I really don't know.
“All I can tell you is the Canadians are a branch of our Royal Navy, and that sub down there is not from Canada.”
I wonder what's wrong with their computers. There's a considerable difference between a maple leaf and an Edelweiss, a small flower from the Alps
“Cecil, can you contact your computer analysts from out here?” I want confirmation on some of my theories.
“Certainly, from your satellite phone, but bring your phone here; it's much too noisy by the boats.”
Retrieving my phone, I adjust the antenna to hit the small dish on the boat. As I stride back to the fire-pit, the Admiral steps beside me and accompanies me back. “Okay, Cecil, get your computer geeks on the line.”
Dobie punches fifteen numbers then says, “Commander Dobie, MI6, A1A, open line, and scan for scrambler. All right, Arthur, now what?” he asks with questioning eyes.
“I hope everyone's ready for some of my theories, because I'm not sure I am. Ask them what the odds are for a Russian nuclear sub being equipped with a diesel engine.”
Dobie shoots me a queer look, then speaks into the phone. The phone has a speaker, which Dobie didn't turn off, so we hear the response.
“Sir, eighty percent probability that a Russian nuclear sub can be built with a diesel engine, and a one-hundred percent probability that a diesel engine can be installed on an existing nuclear sub.”
“Cecil, here it is in a nutshell. Ruth and I think the Ptomken, during her shakedown cruise, dumped or ran off her nuclear fuel to make it seem as if she'd sunk in the trench, then ran here to Lake George on diesel engines to hide in the cavern. We think she's been prowling the Lake for years, and has been slowly refueled and rearmed, possibly by smugglers or poachers that come into Lake George from the ocean. Her Captain's waiting for orders to launch her nuclear missiles from sixty miles inside England to start WWIII, so England will be blamed and retaliated against. They slowly restocked her nuclear fuel and arms so they wouldn't draw attention to themselves on your satellite maps. Cecil, would you ask your computer analysts what the probability is for our theory to be correct?”
Dobie pales as he loses his aplomb, visibly shaken. “My God, man, you've got it.” He speaks to one o
f the analysts for more than five minutes.
“Sir, the computer suggests there's a ninety-nine point nine percent probability your theory is correct. The analysis also considered the satellite photos and the magnetic influx. And the sword sightings over the years might've been a submarine on night patrol.”
Dobie is upset, but not nearly as much as Dr. Tober. He looks over at Ruth with his big, sad eyes, placing his hand on her arm. You can see his dream dying right there in his eyes.
“That's okay, Dr. Tober. We already figured this out,” Ruth says gently, patting his hand.
“Cecil, find the names of the crewmembers on the Ptomken during her shakedown cruise, and whether any of them have been sighted since then.” Dobie's jaw drops a hair before he retains his control, getting back on the phone.
The computer analyst is speaking, but I'm watching Ruth and Tober, so only hear half of what he says. Cocking my head, I raise my eyebrows at Dobie.
“Over the past five years, the Russians have lost three nuclear subs and eight conventional subs. Every man on the conventionally powered subs is listed, and I mean to the man. But strangely, not one crewman's name is listed for the three lost nuclear subs. Do you realize what this means?”
Finally, Dobie is putting all the pieces together, like me. “Yes, Cecil, I do. At least two more Russian nuclear subs could be sitting right off the oceans hiding under magnetic influxes, like this one.”
“My God, there are over one-hundred magnetic influxes on these satellite photos, Mexico, the US, Brazil, and several other countries. Those Russian subs could be damn near anywhere.”
“Fine, but we have a ninety-nine point nine percent chance we're sitting right on top of one now, probably the Ptomken. She's hot, armed, and waiting for orders to fire,” I point out.
The Admiral drops to his knees, exclaiming, “God Save the Queen, and free men everywhere.”
Ruth leans out, patting his arm. “Women and children too, Admiral.”
With terror reflected in his brown eyes, the Admiral says, “Sir, whether the unknown nuclear sub is the Ptomken, or a sub like her, she's carrying more firepower than the fighting nations used during WWII. Do you realize that?”
I think sardonically, no, Admiral, and I'd just as soon not think about it. Shut up.
“Admiral, I'm not a military thinker, but I have a feeling where she's positioned, she won't be able to fire anything but a torpedo. I think she's stationed in a huge natural cavern, right under us, and she'll have to come out on the lake to fire a missile. Cecil, while I'm doing all this speculating, have your men run a Geiger Counter over the fish Ruth and I caught.”
“God yes, man. Of course, mutations from a nuclear contaminant.” He picks up the phone again.
Patting my leg, Ruth says, “My, my, all this from a man who jumps into the dinner.”
“What?” Nichols asks as he slightly moves away from me.
“Uh, nothing, Admiral. Dr. Burns has a strange sense of humor.” I glare at her.
Clearing his throat, Admiral Nichols says, “Ahem, quite.” But he gives me the funny look, not her.
A few minutes later, Cecil says, “You're correct, Arthur. The fish are reading more than eleven times normal radiation for this area. You've just proved there's a nuclear reactor operating in the cavern, and has been for several years. Good show.”
“Except for my satellite phone, Cecil, I'll bet every type of communication device here is being monitored. The next step would be to send a broadband, broadcast message to them. Low powered, so the message can't be picked up at sea by anyone you don't want listening. Let them know they have no way to escape, by lake or sea, and give them a reasonable timespan for a response. And if we don't receive their response by the stated time, the tunnels will be blown, and shortly after that, the cliff face. Then, jam all frequencies, so they can't get a message out or receive one. If you deploy some of your Marines around the place, and especially by the periscope, it may speed up their response time.” Whew, now I need a beer, square can or not. Tober stares goggle-eyed at the square can.
“Arthur, you're a genius. Reggie, get one-hundred of your Marines ready to move out.”
Patting Ruth's hand, I say, “No, Cecil, Ruth is the genius. I wouldn't have figured out half of this if it wasn't for her. Thank Dr. Burns.”
She gives me a sweet smile.
Telepathically, I say to her, *And if I wasn't so neglected by the Lady in the first place.* KICK.
Ruth stands, leans over placing her forehead against mine and whispers in her sultry voice, “Read my mind.”
So, I do. Her thoughts are going one-hundred miles-an-hour, too many thoughts all blurred together. But, I'm able to pick out some of them, *Neglected my ass, Arthur. You're spewing so much macho bullshit, why you over–* The rest lost in the haze of her mind. Some thoughts are best left alone.
Chapter Twenty-One
Cecil is still talking on the phone when Admiral Nichols returns, followed by a group of men. “Commander, we should get word to the PM, don't you think?”
“She's already been notified. We should have a message soon, Admiral. But until then, Arthur can show you where the rock and periscope are located. Set double guards, and inform them to call us if anything moves, or makes a sound. Anything.” He dismisses us with a wave of his hand; he has other matters on his mind. I lead the Admiral and his troops into the trees.
My first trip to the rock took a blink of an eye, but because we're walking, our trip takes twenty minutes. With the boggy ground, and so many people walking the same path, the ground becomes muddier, sucking at our feet, and taking longer to navigate. As we're tromping through the smelly mud, the Admiral introduces me to the Marine's Colonel, a Colonel Ferguson.
“Admiral, Colonel, see that rock?” I point up towards the cliff face. “The periscope, gentlemen.”
The Admiral's looking around, and I have to admit, if you don't know where the periscope is located, it's difficult to spot.
The Colonel touches his arm, pointing. “Sir, there, can you see it? It's pointed directly at us now. They already know we're here.” He steps to the side and deploys his men with military precision and common sense. “Double guards to cover from here to there, and the rest to set up camp in the trees, far enough back so the scope can only see the edge of our camp.” The man is good at his job.
The Admiral and I are getting ready to leave, when he issues a command in his overbearing, whiney tone, “Colonel, if you see any movement, or someone tries to contact you, I want to be notified immediately. Understand?”
The Admiral's laying it on a little heavy for a person who didn't do much but stand around. Hell, in two minutes, the Colonel already did more work than the Admiral probably did in a year. I suppose military groups are the same all over the world. Russia too? I fervently hope so.
As we tromp back through the muck, his radio sounds off. “Coast units to Admiral Nichols.”
“Nichols here, report coast units.”
“Sir, divers are back and report two, repeat, two cave openings, with grates. They both have the same plastic plants and nylon coverings. We have sub-chasers and Corvettes in place for each entrance. We are awaiting orders, sir.”
With a self-satisfied look, he replies, “Admiral Nichols to coast units, wait for further orders. If you see or hear anything, report to me immediately. I repeat immediately. Understand?”
“Aye sir, we report to you immediately. Coast units out.”
“Well, Merlin, now we'll see what these blighters think of a real navy. Er what?”
“Uh yes, sir.” Why am I wishing Colonel Ferguson was in charge of the Navy?
When we arrive back at camp, Dobie's still on the phone. I'm glad he's paying the bill. Ruth glides to me and whispers. “We may have a problem here, Arthur,” then strolls off.
“Arthur, the PM is forbidding any aggressive action against the sub. Seems the Russian Ambassador's presence has been requested, and now, we're not allowed to communicat
e with the sub until we're contacted by her,” Dobie explains with a scowl, face red with anger.
Looking over at Ruth, I think, maybe she's right. If the politicians become involved, they'll talk the sub right out of here and back to Russia. But that's not good enough for us, not by a long shot.
“She'll contact us over the phone, Commander?” I ask Dobie.
“Yes, of course.” He holds up the phone like I'm a dumbass and didn't notice it in his hand.
“Good. We already sent the sub our message?” He looks at me with a puzzled look before he nods. “Then no one heard the exchange between you and the PM, Cecil?”
“I presume so. Now, I'll have to rescind my message to the sub, Arthur.”
“And you've jammed all the other radio frequencies?” Another puzzled nod. “Good, then you won't need to rescind your message. If no one but you and the PM knows about her orders, then they still think you're going to enforce the time limit you gave them, right?”
“Well, of course, but I have orders from the PM.” He's looking at me, but he's more concerned with the Admiral's opinion. His eyes keep shifting to where the Admiral is standing, listening and watching.
“Look, Cecil. They have to be sweating right now. They can't get any messages out, and they probably know about the ships covering the grates, and they can certainly see our troops. Now, how much time did you give them?” Come on, Dobie, I think, holding my breath, stop acting like a bureaucrat, just for a minute.
“Uh, eleven tonight, ten hours from now. Any acts of aggression on their part will immediately set off the explosions. In fact, I have to recall the divers; they're mining the grates as we speak. Blasting the grates won't do much damage, but to the Captain of the sub, it'll sound as if we blew up the whole cavern.” I can see the wheels slowly turning behind his eyes. He's finally coming around. And it only took one tiny, little mental push. “Uh, we have radar and sonar scanning at all three grates, but so far, we haven't received any usable readings. The magnetic influx is too strong to penetrate.” He looks pale and worn out already. Going against orders must be difficult for him.