Buck Rogers- A Life in the Future

by Martin Caidin

  Wilma looked at Buck. "There's a harness in your seat. Strap yourself in."

  He followed her instructions. Moments later the bow dropped, and lo began to dive at a steep angle for the bottom.

  Twenty minutes later they were far out from the coastline, running deep near an ocean floor that changed from cavernous furrows and rock formations to what looked like a sandy plain. There wasn't a sign of life, not even an occasional fish. All signs of vegetation had disappeared. At a hundred knots, lo ran just

  Buck Rogers

  above the bottom plains, the bleak floor of the ocean broken occasionally by the hulks of sunken ships—shattered merchantmen, warships, even the tangled wreckage of bombers from several wars past.

  "We're south of the Hudson Canyon now," Wilma related. "It's deep and dangerous. Once you're in it, the canyon walls shift without warning from wide to narrow. At this speed, even lo could be damaged by impact with the canyon walls. We'll slack off speed and go to silent running."

  The bottom began to change again. The bleak ocean floor gave way to tumbled hills. They were entering the Hatteras Canyon, a wide slash in the descending slopes of the continental shelf. Their speed increased again. "You might as well take a break now," Wilma offered. "You've got time for a meal and a shower and some sleep if you feel tired. Everything should remain pretty bland until we get a good way off the Florida coastline. Then it gets interesting. We'll be traveling through the Blake Escarpment. It's a craggy, rough area of tumbled cliffs. There's been so much breakup of the slopes that maps from a few months ago are useless. We have at least twelve to fourteen hours before we get there."

  "How about getting something to eat together?" he asked.

  "With or without our precious captain?"

  "Your claws are showing."

  Wilma shrugged. "I don't play games with a man I like and respect."

  "Yes, ma'am," Buck said.

  He ate a meal of steak and fries and several cups of strong black coffee. Immediately afterward, he returned to his cabin and fell into a deep sleep.

  Some time later, the alarm sounding battle stations brought him fully awake and alert.

  Chapter 15

  Buck came to his feet immediately, hitting the overhead hght switch and grabbing for his clothes. He was in his jumpsuit in seconds and pulling on his boots when a fist hammered at his cabin door. "It's open! C'mon in!" he yelled.

  Wilma stood in the doorway, the red flash of battle stations reflecting like a blinking traffic light across her face. Buck pressed the self-sticking tapes to tighten his boots and looked up from the edge of his bunk.

  "What the hell is going on?" he asked.

  "Ambush," came the immediate reply. "We're well into the Blake Escarpment. It's a perfect setup for the kind of trap we just ran into."

  "Never mind the geography lesson," he snapped. "Ambushed by whom? And how? What's out there against us? And what the devil am I supposed to do besides play stupid tourist?"

  "I've heard from the bridge. Captain wants us both in the Response Bay. Don't ask me why. We'll find out soon enough. Just finish dressing and let's get out of here. Pull down that hatch to your right. There's an emergency breathing mask and communicator in there. Put them on." He followed her example as she donned the emergency breathing system and pressed a switch. He did the same. "Can you hear me?" he heard.

  Buck Rogers

  "Loud and clear."

  "Good. If you get any calls from the bridge or an3rwhere else, they'll automatically cut into our frequency."

  "Got it. Let's go." They started out at a steady trot along the lower passageways of the great submarine. Crewmen in different colored emergency gear hurried past them, everyone tightly disciplined and moving steadily, controlled.

  "We've got a minute or two," he called to Wilma through the communicator. "Has there been an attack against us?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so, or they'd be flooding these areas with flame-dousing gas. It won't hurt you if you breathe it in, but it knocks out flames in a hurry. I haven't seen any yet, but if you see a cream-colored vapor cloud, don't sweat it. That's what it is."

  They emerged from the passageway and stood aside as several combat teams went by at a dead run, then climbed the ladder leading upward to the Response Bay. "All the teams that take action against an attacker get their orders and equipment here," Wilma said quickly. "As soon as we're inside, Security will activate your security chip and log you into the computer. Then we wait for whatever orders they have for us." They entered the Response Bay.

  Commander Sally Cortez turned from a situation console. She gestured them to her. "I'll fill you in. We're on full red alert and battle stations." She tapped keys on her computer board. The large transparent map above the computer flashed into colored lines. "This is the Blake Escarpment. We're, um—" she hit another key—"right here." A blinking light represented lo.

  Buck looked at the three-dimensional holodisplay of the ocean bottom. It looked worse than the cratered moon. Cliffs jutted upward from the ocean floor, jagged and split in many areas.

  "This whole surface is like an obstacle course," Cortez said. "Many of the cliffs have caved in, and there's uncharted debris ever5rwhere. We're getting a sonar readout in realtime of what's around us. See here, to the east? You'll notice the cliffs curve toward the Caribbean Basin."

  "It looks like cliffs of clay that have been exposed to heavy rainfall," Buck noted. "Like storm runoff"

  "Much the same effect. There's a powerful current running off the mainland, and it sweeps into these cliffs, breaking them

  A Life in the Future

  up." She pointed to the map. "See this narrow strip of deep, curving sea floor? And just beyond this flattened area, there's a steady rise of low mountains, higher than the abyssal hills. The hills are a natural barrier to any boat coming from this direction. Anything moving our way to bushwhack us would have to rise pretty close to the surface. But if they've been lying in wait for us, along this narrow channel, and they haven't been moving, there's no way we could detect them."

  "Who are they?" Wilma asked.

  "Our best guess is the Chileans. Possibly some of the bigger Mongol boats. They don't have many left, and they're inefficient, but they carry heavy armament. To put it mildly, we're outnumbered, and they've got the high and the low ground. For us to go over the abyssal hills is to leave ourselves wide open to attack. If we go down, we get into that curving channel, and they can hit us before we have a chance to find them."

  "Can we outrun them?" Buck asked.

  "Captain Valmar judges that's exactly what they expect us to do. They'll have us in a three-way crossfire." Cortez frowned. "What I don't understand is how they knew exactly where we were. It's as if they've been expecting us."

  "The Mongol boats tell the answer," Buck said quickly. "Want to bet a buck to a doughnut that Golden Dragon outfit is playing both ends against the middle? They're getting paid by us and they're getting paid by the Mongols and the Chileans, and they're selling information to both sides. There's an old expression for this. We've been suckered."

  Captain Valmar joined them. "Sally, expand the area on the situation map."

  Immediately the area in view enlarged. "If we go east, we're wide open to detection. There's the Vema Gap. It widens into the Nares Abyssal Plain, and there's no cover for us."

  "What about south?" Buck asked.

  "If we get far enough south, we can drive straight into the area of the Puerto Rican Trench. It goes down more than five miles. They wouldn't be able to follow us there. But first," Valmar stressed, "we've got to get through this ambush."

  "Commander, can you get a scene of the area south of Swan Island?" Buck asked.

  Again the scenes shifted on the situation holodisplay. "That's

  Buck Rogers

  it," Buck said quickly. "Hold it right there. Captain, I once made some deep dives there while I was cross-training with the Navy. That area is a drowned coral atoll. It's an undersea pl
ateau that starts six thousand feet down and then rises to barely a hundred feet beneath the surface."

  "We'd be a sitting duck there," Valmar broke in. "There's hardly any room for maneuvering."

  "Knowing we were coming this way couldn't give your enemy enough information to pinpoint where we are," Buck answered. "You've been tracked the whole time since we put to sea."

  Valmar looked hard at Buck. "How do you know that?" she demanded.

  "Can you find out if there's been any unusual aircraft activity along the coastal area? Philadelphia southward to where we are right now?"

  "Yes, but why?"

  "I'll explain later, but please get me that information now. It may explain a lot."

  Valmar signaled to an officer and relayed the message from Buck. "We'll know in two or three minutes."

  Cortez gestured to the holodisplay. "It won't be any too soon. Colonel. See those three red dots moving toward us? They're Chilean boats. Once they move, our sensors can identify them."

  "Data," Valmar snapped.

  "Fast runners," Cortez replied. "Six thousand tons each. Nuclear drive. They're pouring out radiation for us to pick up and identify. Each boat carries twelve high-speed torpedoes with UDXR warheads, six hundred pounds each."

  "That's a break for us," Valmar replied.

  Buck's eyes widened. "Torpedoes with high-yield explosives are a break*^"

  "The moment they fire those torps, we'll send out a sweep of microtorps of our own. They'll pick up the sounds of anything coming our way. The Chilean boats have liquid-air engines, but not their torps. They're old-fashioned, clumsy things. They use a rocket booster to initiate high speed and then they use propellers. Make a racket you can pick up for a hundred miles."

  "Captain, incoming torpedos," Cortez interrupted, her voice incredibly calm.

  A Life in the Future

  "Fire first interceptor sweep. Nine Mark Six killers. Launch!" Valmar snapped.

  Everything worked as anticipated. Streaks of white light marked the micros rushing toward the incoming torpedoes. "Seventy seconds to intercept," intoned Commander Cortez.

  "That's a whole minute, Rogers. I have your data. There's been a single aircraft, very high altitude, flying slowly up and down the coast, every now and then adopting a wide circular flight pattern."

  Buck slammed a fist into his other hand. "Just what I expected. We're being tracked from above."

  "How?" Valmar shot back.

  "It's MAD."

  "Rogers, are you crazy? Mad about what?"

  "You misunderstand. Captain. It's obvious that some of the systems we had in my time have been lost or forgotten. I—"

  He stopped in midsentence as the streaks of white met the incoming red lights. Brilliant flashes speared the display. Combat Center relayed data to all hands through their receivers in the oxygen helmets everyone wore.

  "Eight incoming torps intercepted and destroyed." Dull thunder rolled through the sea, a deep low rumble against the great mass of/o. "One torp still incoming. Tracking is ineffective with defensive micros. Damage Control, activate hull defense systems immediately. All hands, brace for impact."

  Wilma grasped the edge of a computer bank. Buck did the same. He was startled to see Captain Valmar standing in a crouch, ready to absorb any shock through her stance.

  "You'll find this interesting," she said to Buck. He couldn't understand her calm. She must have nerves of pure steel. . . .

  An explosion boomed through the hull. lo rocked gently, sliding to one side from what was obviously a direct hit from a torpedo. Buck scanned the combat center. He could hardly believe the calm and discipline of everyone in sight.

  "Damage report," Valmar said calmly.

  "One direct impact. Defense system activated on schedule. No damage to system. Hull breach closed."

  "Very good. Keep me informed of any change," Valmar replied.

  She turned back to face Buck. "We have a sensor system

  Buck Rogers

  built all along our hull, encircling the boat. The sensors detect the pressure wave of anything coming toward us at any speed. The computers immediately determine the point of impact. Our outer hull instantly expands a pod at that point with heavy nitrogen. The blast is absorbed by the pod, which vents the pressure away from the hull. You can liken the hit to a mosquito bite."

  "Amazing," Buck said, obviously impressed.

  "Let's get down to something less amazing. You were saying something about mad?"

  "MAD," Buck repeated. "It means magnetic anomaly scanning. Even back in the early sixties—nineteen sixties, that is— we had planes that could cruise five miles high with MAD detectors in booms trailing from the tail."

  "And they could detect submersibles from that height?"

  "Absolutely. They were so good they could just about tell you the name of the Russian sub captain. Not even lo can screen out its signal, unless you're very deep. If electronics have advanced like I think they have, then whoever has a modern version of our MAD systems can pick you up several miles down. In the magnetic spectrum, you're like a bright light."

  Valmar leaned back against a console. "The Chileans don't have large aircraft capable of such flight," she said.

  "It must be Mongolian control," Cortez added.

  "You may be able to take care of those boats out there waiting for us," Buck told the assembled combat team of/o, "but as long as you're being tracked from above, you can't hide down here. That's how these boats were able to set up their ambush. They could even work out a timetable for when you'd arrive."

  "Markham!" Valmar called. An officer appeared immediately.

  "Look at the holo. See those boats out there lajdng for us? Do they look close enough to the cliffs?"

  The officer, wearing the red jumpsuit of the ordnance team, grinned. "Yes, sir! I've already studied that situation, Captain. If we put a couple of big torps into those cliffs, we'd set off a hell of a landslide. Those boats will have to move, and fast, just to keep from being buried under a few million tons of rock. Most of their sensors will turn to mush from the debris the explosion churns up. Mud, dust, heat . . . the whole nine yards."

  A Life in the Future

  "Well done, Markham. Our sensor torps, of course, will be just as blind. How many negs are ready to launch?"

  Buck turned to Cortez. "Negs?"

  "Negative buoyancy boats. Long, slim, maximum nuclear drive with minimum cross-section. Since they're negative buoyancy, they've got to keep moving or they go down."

  "Just like an aircraft," Buck noted.

  "Precisely, Colonel. They're as tough as a steel girder. Two-man crews and a slew of stingers. Pencil-thin torpedoes with needle-nose warheads. If the negs get anywhere near those Chilean boats, they'll be dead meat. They're very maneuver-able and fast."

  "But taking out those subs isn't enough," Valmar broke in. "Markham, prepare the Mark Nine torps to blow away those hills and scarps. The minute everything comes sliding down, send out six negs. I want those Chilean boats hit from all sides."

  She turned to Buck. "But unless we get rid of that thing overhead, we'll be a sitting duck as well."

  "Captain, remember that sea mountain I mentioned a little while ago? That drowned coral atoll?"

  "Go on. Quickly, Colonel. We don't have time to spare."

  "Captain, it's a magnetic madhouse around there. I don't know what causes it, but every time we sailed over it or flew over that area, our detection equipment went haywire. The magnetic compasses just spun about like crazy. If you rest lo alongside that plateau, or even on top of it, they won't be able to pick you up. The area will screw up their gear."

  Valmar turned back to Markham. "Two EM decoys ready to go. Follow procedures I've given you for the big torps and the negs. The moment that's done, send the decoy out headed due east. About two thousand feet down, speed nine zero knots."

  She turned back to Buck. "The decoy is a roboscout. It sends out an electronic signal that exactly matches the size and shape
of/o. If what you say is true, then that plane—"

  "Will go after the decoy," Buck finished. "Just like the decoys in the old days. We used them in the air and under the sea."

  "And once they've taken the bait, you're going upstairs to shoot down that Mongol plane."

  ''Whatr

  Buck Rogers

  "Commander Cortez," Valmar ordered, "escort these two to the aft launching bay." She gestured toward Wilma and Buck. "Give the colonel five minutes in the simulator to study the controls. What he doesn't know or remember can be filled in by Deering. All right, everybody, let's mover

  Chapter 16

  Buck sat forward in the tandem seat of the Skua. The trainer was an exact duphcate of the combat machine.

  The Skua had the feel and touch of a stub-winged killer, its small wings swept back rakishly. Wilma ordered him to slide into his body harness. "You've got to be able to get out of this thing faster than you can climb in," she said sternly. "I've flown ships in orbit that have the same general controls, but there's nothing out there that can compare to the this for performance in atmosphere."

  Buck felt the controls. "Green knob, left hand, jet engine throttle?"

  "Right. The blue controls the latch-and-free mechanism for compressed-air launch, and that, mister, is one hell of a kick in the slats. At least fourteen g's to boost into the air, and then— that red grip? That's the rocket boost for maximum climb, with a reserve tank that combines the ramjet with a rocket engine for emergency power in the air. Now put your hand back to the green knob. Twist it left and right. When you twist left, this thing falls like a rock. When you twist right, you're almost a hovercraft. We're not big enough for antigrav, and for our purpose, it's a luxury we don't need."

  Buck wrapped his right hand about an old-style fighter plane