Cyborg 01 - Cyborg

by Martin Caidin

  He eased beneath the heavy plant growth. Barely in time. Churning sounds grew louder. A boat overhead, moving closer to him. He wondered about the second porpoise, Baker. He’d forgotten for the moment that it was closer to the surface. Too close! They were on to something. He wished he could see, but the water was oily, and the screws from overhead were messing things up badly. Sunlight twisted and danced from the seething water overhead, mixing with oil and muck, and he knew he couldn’t hack this much longer. He froze when he heard new sounds. Unmistakable. Automatic weapons and . . . he listened carefully. The screws were pounding heavier now. A series of explosions. One blow after the other. Cannon shells. Had to be. But what—?

  A red light flashed on the control panel. Baker . . . the second porpoise. The light told him what had happened. The porpoise was taking hits. Its systems were being chewed to ribbons. Steve hit the controls for Baker, throwing full power to the reactor, ordering a reversal of course. He hoped they were still close enough for the sonic signal to be picked up. All that acoustic interference could drown the signal. He’d know soon enough. If it worked, Baker would be moving away from him, the fluke thrashing the water. He heard another sound above the booming explosions and boat screws. A shrill chattering at full power. Baker . . . no question now that the porpoise was finished. It was going into its preprogrammed death throes. If the systems worked, a red chemical would be pouring out from the porpoise as it thrashed about wildly. Steve hoped the controls would operate long enough for Baker to lead its pursuers away from the immediate vicinity. He’d never have a better chance. The sea was almost boiling with sound. His own sonar should work, being limited to immediate range. He switched on the system, watched the scope glow with reflections of the passageway ahead. He moved the control stick forward, almost reckless now with the urge to move, to cover as much distance as possible during the tumult overhead. The porpoise cleaved its way through water and suddenly things went completely dark. Inside the tunnel now. Staying as close to the bottom as he could remain and still keep moving, he continued away from the uproar. When the blast came he was ready for it—the reactor in Baker, letting go as planned, sending out a violent pressure wave. It was far enough away not to hurt, but more than strong enough to cover his movement. They should be milling about on the surface, wondering what had happened. They were pursuing an animal and the animal had exploded. If the breaks stayed with him it would take them some time to figure things out, even longer to start looking for another phony porpoise, or something else.

  The current began to fade. The sonar scope showed the sides of the underground channel broadening swiftly. He must be inside. He stayed close to the bottom, barely moving, trying to figure out what he might expect when he eased his way toward the surface. The sonar swept thirty degrees to each side and he had an impression of walls far to each side of his position. That meant there’d be no curving passage. Just the underground channel into a huge cave. He needed to know how far back it went. He moved forward slowly, the thundering sounds now muted, far behind him. The scope picked up something new. No mistaking the shapes he saw glowing before him. Long, symmetrical. Subs. To his right, a line of them. The hulls of the Russian boats. Seven, then . . . at least a dozen moored along the right side of the cave. Could be more. Should he move beneath the subs, using them for cover, or move to the opposite side of the cave, where there might be some growth along the bottom he could use for cover? The right decision could keep him alive. The wrong one could put him directly into the jaws of the defenses.

  Whoever was running the defense system solved the problem for him. He squinted with the sudden pain of a shattering alarm signal. It pulsated through the water, hammering brutally at him. Far ahead of him lights began to stab through the water. Moving directly toward him. Trapped.

  CHAPTER 19

  Move.

  No time to think. Do it instinctively, as he had planned it, as Carpentier and Schiller had rehearsed him for three days and nights. When the time came to abandon the porpoise there could be no waste motion.

  His hand banged against a switch cover, snapped it away, pushed a toggle switch full forward. In the same motion he was out of the harness, shoving hard with both hands, making sure not to catch the thick cylinders strapped to his body against the structural rails of the porpoise. He had exactly ten seconds to free himself from the machine, ten seconds to get away from the fluke. He eased away carefully, kicking with his legs and swimming hard to get to the side. Not a moment too soon as the fluke seemed to go mad. At the count of ten seconds the nuclear generator went to maximum power. This close to Able, Steve heard the shrill whine of released energy as the fluke thrashed about, almost exploding the porpoise away from him. Steve went for the bottom, then struck out away from the bright lights that glowed through the water from the sub base, heading for the darker side of the cavern, where he hoped he could find weeds or some other growth. Behind and above him the porpoise went through several bizarre turns, then struck out in an erratic, weaving path. The thrashing sounds mixed with distant explosions and the churning of screws as patrol boats headed in the direction of the sudden turmoil in the water. There’d be more soon, and Steve knew Able was doing its last work in covering his presence. He heard the high-pitched squeal stabbing the water, then hissing sounds barely audible to his ears. These were small, gas-actuated cylinders fanning away from Able to create their own disturbance, emitting the same squealing noise. Anyone listening with hydrophones or studying a sonar scope would be confused, would judge that a school of porpoises had penetrated the cavern and then gone berserk. The cylinders shot through the water, hissing and squealing in wide, random patterns. Whatever sea life present in the area would be rushing about as well. It could be his chance. He swam with frantic energy, using only his feet, groping with his hands in front of him, starting up toward the surface now, hoping he could take advantage of the bright floodlights he was able to detect as he moved upward. The sound of screws was louder now. More ominous was the fact that he heard so many of them.

  Something brushed his hand and he twisted violently to the side, reaching for a knife at his belt. In the same moment he knew he was moving within tall plant growth from the bottom. He slid gratefully into its midst, eased his body to the vertical and moved the flippers slowly to work to the surface. The higher he went the more he saw of the lights, rippling reflections of blue-white floodlights in spattering glows. Then he was immediately beneath the surface, the lights splashing from the oily water. He made certain nothing moved near him. The close-fitting, flat rubber over his head wouldn’t reflect light but there was always the danger of the mask throwing back a reflection. No other way to go; he had to commit.

  He broke the water silently, without a splash. He tried to accustom his eyes to the dazzling glare of lights several hundred feet away. A new barrage of sound above the surface came to him. Generators, engines, the sounds of men shouting, calling to one another. Bursts of gunfire . . . of course; Able, still tearing through the water, showing itself with a glistening hump and fin, calling attention to its presence. More firing. Automatic weapons, the flat crackling sound of clips being emptied. Above the thundering roars he heard the sharp whine of bullets ricocheting from the water.

  He treaded water effortlessly, making sure to keep only the upper part of his head above the surface, turning slowly. The lights were no longer directly in his eyes and he could see more clearly now. The base was larger than he’d been told. He raised his eyesight and saw rock glistening wetly overhead, reflecting the blue-white floods. Wet rock . . . of course; condensation would be an almost constant process here. Machinery would be throwing off exhaust fumes, but with the mask over his face he smelled nothing of the cavern. The roar of engines and continuing bursts of gunfire drowned out any machinery from the base itself. Far to his right he saw what he had come to confirm on film. A line of dark shapes in the water, against a gangway of some sort built along the rock walls. He reached for the camera fastened to his wai
stbelt. His hand groped beneath the water. The camera was gone, lost somewhere when he was getting out of the porpoise. Well, that’s why they sent along a self-contained camera, he told himself. He scanned the surface again, studying the position of the patrol boats. They were all about, milling, searchlights sweeping the water and—

  A fast-moving cone of light sent him under. A dazzling glow swept immediately overhead. They were searching everywhere. He waited several seconds, came up again slowly, prepared to move underneath once more. But the light was gone, flashing along the walls far to his left. He reached up with his right hand, crossing across his chest, feeling for the trip switch embedded beneath the plastiskin. He pushed hard against the side of his head, near the socket, feeling the switch move. He turned to the end of the line of submarines, concentrated, blinked his eyes. One. He repeated the movement. “Take two of everything,” Goldman had advised. He moved his head to the left, taking two more pictures. Then a view of the dock across the cavern. Maybe too far away to have it come out with any detail, but the photo people could worry about that. He took two shots of the boats in the water, dove for his life when a searchlight beam moved his way, came up once more. The boat was turning away, close enough for him to see the men on deck crouching down, holding their arms before their eyes.

  Crouching down . . . arms before their eyes . . . What was—?

  In that instant he became blind.

  Instantly, reflex governing his actions, his hands pushed him beneath the surface. He wanted to cry out from the sudden agony in his right eye. He instinctively brought up his hand, trying to hold the eye, and discovered he was pawing ineffectively at the face mask. He drew in deep breaths, fighting the pain. For a long moment he fought vertigo, the waves of dizziness destroying all sense of balance. Stay still, he warned himself. Just hang on, don’t move your head. Let it all settle down . . . Vertigo could make him helpless here. If he were left with no sense of up or down or right or left . . . nausea rippled his stomach and he fought down the bile that threatened to erupt from his throat. It wouldn’t do to throw up into the mask. He breathed deeply, evenly, trying to think, and then he knew what had happened. He opened his eye, saw streaks and spatterings of red. No vision yet, but it was coming hack. Whorls and cartwheels of light as his eye struggled to readapt.

  They had one smart somebody protecting this place, a man who knew how to put himself in the mind of someone who would be trying to get in, for photographs or even to bring in explosive charges. You figure the intruders are going to be good; they’ve been trying for a long time. Fourteen men you know of have been lost. So you figure they’re going to come in again, and there’s every chance they’ll send in underwater demolition teams. Maybe you won’t see them, you won’t have a chance to get to them before they tear up the place. Well, men must see in order to do their job. He had his warning and had been slow in reacting. The men on the patrol boat crouching down, covering their eyes. Because a flare bomb was about to go off, and whoever was looking at it when it detonated would be temporarily blinded.

  He felt an alarm clamoring in the back of his head. He needed to think. He could see better now, but it was taking all his concentration. The signs were unmistakable but he couldn’t put the pieces together. He blinked rapidly, realized he was wiping out the rest of the tiny film cartridge. He had enough. What he had come for. But unless he put himself into high gear he’d never get out. He stared with his right eye. Better than he expected. Normal vision was almost back, and—

  He went cold with the realization of what was happening, what had happened.

  The explosions had stopped.

  It was a dead giveaway. Think . . . figure there are UDT men inside the cavern. They set off the flare bomb. Maybe two or three or four. He couldn’t tell, of course, after that first eye-stabbing agony. There could have been a dozen more, fired in rapid succession after he went back underwater. Then what? If they figure there are men caught unawares with the flare bombs, they also know they have them off balance. What next? They send their own men into the water after them. They send them after what they expect will be half-blinded, groping swimmers in the water.

  The weeds had saved him. Now he could see the lights underwater, knew the lights had swimmers behind them. Swimmers who would be armed. Spearguns, most likely. Knives for the close work. Looking for him.

  He stayed in the growth, pushed himself lower, went as far as he could get until he felt the flippers on his feet brush against bottom. He’d have to do something. The people looking for him had all the time in the world. He didn’t. His clock moved with the flow of oxygen into his lungs, and he had perhaps an hour left in the tanks. Time was on their side. They could wait him out. He knew they’d have detectors ready to pick up any propulsion sound. Anything that used a screw or a hydrojet to move. They had men swimming around so they couldn’t detect him through instruments. They’d have to find him directly. With the lights. Man to man.

  That should have tipped the odds in his favor. Maybe not, despite his tremendous speed. He didn’t know how many swimmers they had in the search. They’d be keeping a close watch where the cave narrowed down to the underwater passage. And the boats beyond that, outside on the surface. Waiting. A hell of a gauntlet to run. But now that he knew what was happening, at least he could make his move. And whatever it would be, hanging around while he sucked away his oxygen wasn’t the answer. He hated to do it, but he’d have to surface again. Get his bearing and—No, he told himself sharply. You’re against the wall. You saw where, how it curves coming into the cavern. He argued with himself. Stay along the wall. Work your way back that way. No one can get to you from one side. You can see them coming by their lights . . .

  It was the only sane way. He moved deeper into the weeds until he touched rock. Difficult to see. The wall was to his right. Okay. That’s an established reference. He turned his head to the left. Lights. Many of them, moving through the water. Men behind the lights, moving in sweep pattern. He brought his watch closer to the faceplate. The dial glowed. Forty-five minutes of air left. Better to risk everything than be assured of getting creamed because he ran out of air and had to surface.

  He started moving, his legs working in a slow, powerful beat that gave him good forward speed with the least possible disturbance of the water around him. It was rougher than he expected. He had to judge his distance by the shimmering pools of light to his left. Not good enough; the lights were moving, and he had no idea which sources paralleled movement, which moved away or closer to his own changing position. If he could see the wall to his right, the sloping, roughly shaped rock, it would help tremendously. But he couldn’t. Several times he thudded into an outcropping of rock, stunning himself. Without the wetsuit he would have torn his shoulder. As it was he felt the material rip. A repetition of the scraping blow would flay open the skin.

  It took nearly fifteen minutes of precious oxygen to reach the tunnel. Here he brought himself to almost a drifting movement. He felt the current, the different temperature of the water. More than that he saw the glow of lights ahead of him. Lights within the tunnel, lights above on the surface. To hell with those. The men underneath, at his level, were the danger. He started forward, stopped again. He was making a mistake and it came to him with absolute certainty. He was watching the lights, knew there would be men behind them. What about the others who might be lying on the bottom, looking up, waiting to see a form moving by them? That’s when they’ll move . . . The knife was in his hand. Wait. You may get in a worse tangle. He extended the middle finger of his bionics hand and snapped the presslock.

  No more time to waste. The knife was back in his right hand, his left arm extended slightly before him as he maneuvered with his legs only. He went to the bottom, moving steadily, looking not for the lights but for shadows. He saw the first man almost at once. He was treading water, holding his position against the outflowing current, a speargun in his hand. Steve stayed low until he was directly beneath the other man, and when he
came up it was with a savage thrust with his legs, his right arm extended ahead of him. The knife went in low in the belly, and Steve kept thrusting with his legs. He thought fleetingly of taking the speargun, but it was tethered to the other man’s wrist and there was a thrashing paroxysm going on there. Steve curled his body, went for the bottom again, moved off to the side. As he expected, someone saw the sudden movement, came in to examine what was happening.

  Steve kept moving over the bottom, trying not to attract attention. Lights were turning his way. Always try for surprise . . . Ricardo had told him that over and over, and the words came back forcefully now. He had speed. Considerable speed.

  He threw all his strength into his legs, felt them hammer the water behind him. In moments he was moving with great speed. They saw the form rushing through the water. Instinctively the men before him started moving to the side. Spearguns are for men, not whatever this was, moving at this speed. No one fired. He strained, driving as hard as he could, watched the lights sliding by. And forgot there might be others waiting on the bottom. Time enough for one man to see him coming. Steve saw the burst of compressed air, knew a spear knifed toward him. He arched his body, saw the spear race by, much too close. The man was right behind with a knife, moving the blade in a wide slashing motion. Steve doubled over, his own knife ready, ripped through an air hose. He didn’t stop to see what was happening but kicked furiously again, into the tunnel. They had him spotted now. Something clamped onto his left leg. He didn’t exactly feel the grip, knew what had happened more by the sudden dragging effect. He kicked violently, felt something soft yielding. The drag was gone.