America jg-9

by Stephen Coonts

  "No. Apparently he doesn't waste ink on the hired help."

  CHAPTER TEN

  When the sun crept over the rim of the sea, America was still drifting fifteen hundred feet below the surface of the North Atlantic, dead in the water. Every minute or so, in response to the movement of people inside the hull, water was automatically and silently pumped into or out of the tanks to maintain the boat's trim. Kolnikov knew the pumps were working because lights flickered on and off on the control panel. Still, the way the computers kept the boat level and maintained its depth within inches seemed almost magic. The control room lights were very dim… in fact, Kolnikov concluded, they were off. The only illumination came from the sonar displays, computer screens, and LCD readouts.

  Kolnikov studied the computer screen that monitored noise being manufactured within the boat. Every thump and click of metal on metal from the engineering spaces registered here, although the level of noise was far too low for a human ear to detect. Nothing else. He wondered about that oil pump. Why did it fail now? The trim pumps were oh so quiet, with new, well-lubricated bearings. The air circulation fans, the condensers… the boat was like a giant Swiss watch with a million moving parts.

  Eck's face appeared green in the reflected light of his screen as he experimented with the Revelation computer. The large display screens on the bulkhead were quite dark, not because the sea was very quiet but because most of the natural noises of the sea had been filtered out. The system was waiting, listening, for a noise that should not be there. Still, an occasional flicker or momentary illumination showed ill-defined, ever-changing, fantastic shapes. They are nothing, Kolnikov decided, nothing at all. Or were they?

  "This is an extraordinary system," Eck said when he realized Kolnikov was watching over his shoulder. "The computer can detect frequencies and wave patterns that are too faint to be presented optically. Ships at hundreds of miles, planes, whales calling for their mates — it's a fantastic piece of gear."

  "Skip the whales. Find me a submarine."

  "They are out here," Eck said with conviction. "I hear screw noises, gurgles… much too faint and momentary to get a bearing on. But they are real. I hear them. Revelation hears them. They are out there." '

  "Umm," Kolnikov said. He too thought the American submarines were in these waters hunting America, and perhaps also British and French boats, but he didn't choose to discuss it with Eck. Eck, on the other hand, was not reticent. "I thank my stars," the German continued, "I am not out there in this sea in one of those noisy old East German boats with this thing hunting me. God, it gives me chills just thinking of it!"

  Kolnikov was idly watching the compass and monitoring the opening and closing of trim valves when Georgi Turchak came into the control room. He took Kolnikov aside and spoke very softly so that Eck wouldn't hear. "It's the bearings in that pump. It's in a tight space and difficult to work on." So..

  "It's a bigger job than I thought. Three or four more hours, at least. We must drain the oil from the housing and rig a hoist to handle the pieces when we break it apart. And if we screw up the gaskets, we're out of luck: The spare parts inventories don't show any aboard."

  "So what happens if we can't get it back together?"

  "We are out of luck. The pump forces oil into the main bearings. Without it—" He left the sentence unfinished.

  "Can we limp along as is?"

  Turchak nodded. "If you are willing to tolerate the noise. And we proceed slowly."

  "An oil circulation pump…" Kolnikov tilted the stool and put his feet up on the tactical presentation. He studied his shoes.

  "The men are worried," Turchak said. "They know the thing will make noise. They talked of little else while we worked."

  "What do you think?" Kolnikov asked and eyed his friend.

  "We have done all we can, Vladimir Ivanovich. You must weigh the risks and decide how to proceed."

  "I must decide?"

  "You." Turchak sat heavily in the chair in front of the helm controls. "My wife is dead, I haven't talked to my son in years — hell, I don't know where he is, and I guarantee you he doesn't know or care where I am. We are expendable, you, me, all of us. No one cares whether we live or die, whether we go back to France or Russia or wherever." He jerked his head toward the rear of the boat. "Those men back there helping me. They have no one. Oh, they want money, a chance at life. But they have nothing in this world. So you decide. Is the risk worth it?"

  "What have we got to lose, eh?"

  "Only our lives."

  "And they are worth precisely nothing."

  "Nothing at all," Turchak said heavily.

  "Okay," said Vladimir Kolnikov. "Let's crack the pump housing, replace the bearings. Try not to screw up the gaskets. If we can get it all back together more or less the way the shipyard had it, we'll get under way. Slowly."

  "What if we can't?"

  "You are a good submariner, Georgi Alexandrovich. Do the best you can and we'll all live with it."

  "And then?"

  "And then," Kolnikov said, trying to sound optimistic, "we will get under way and motor merrily toward the programmed launch point. If the tactical display is correct, we are only twenty-three miles southwest of it. We will head for it at five knots. Begin a gentle ascent so we get as little hull popping as possible as the pressure comes off. We will poke our masts up, get a GPS update, shoot, then run like hell."

  "It will be broad daylight. Midday."

  "That's right."

  "The Americans will be all over us."

  "We will go deep. I think this boat might take two thousand feet. We will find out, eh? That's below the depth any Los Angeles-ca.ss boat can reach. With a smidgen of good fortune, there will be some kind of thermal or salinity incongruity below a thousand feet. We will run awhile, clear the area, then go dead in the water and drift. They won't expect that. Deep and dead silent, we will be devilishly difficult to find. We'll drift for days if necessary. We'll outwait them. We've got plenty of time. The Americans will get impatient and eventually leave."

  "Drifting…" said Turchak, thinking about it.

  "I've been watching the compass. The boat has turned about eighty degrees in the last two hours as we drifted. The trim pumps have had no trouble controlling our pitch attitude, and they are brand-new, dead quiet. If necessary, we could use the screw a little to give the planes some bite. A knot of way at the most, I trfink." He thought about it a moment, then added, "I have never seen a boat so quiet. I can hear my heart pounding. Drifting like this, we almost cease to exist."

  "The American subs will be looking for a quiet place in the sea," Turchak objected. "A black hole in a noisy universe. You know that as well as I."

  "Old boats are too noisy, this one is too quiet — what would it take to please you, good friend?"

  "What if an attack boat shows up in the neighborhood and goes active?"

  Kolnikov got out his lighter and played with it. "I don't think an American skipper will take that risk. If he goes active, he's a beaconing target."

  "We'd better have a couple of fish ready," Turchak advised. "And we'd better be ready to run like hell. Just in case there's an American skipper out there with a bigger set of balls than you normally see in the woods."

  In Washington that morning Jake Grafton found that Flap Le Beau had sent a car and driver to pick him up. As the car carried him the two miles to the Pentagon, he scanned an intelligence summary of the previous day's events. He also glanced out the window, watching the traffic, which seemed to be almost back to normal. Most of the commuters lived in the suburbs, so their automobiles were far enough from the blast of the E-warheads to escape damage. There were no traffic signals in Washington this morning, of course, but police officers directed traffic at every major intersection. Heaven knows what the commuters would do when they reached work— perhaps add columns of figures by candlelight in buildings with windows that could not be opened.

  The old mansion at the center of the White House complex
had burned completely to the ground. Fortunately the East and West wings had been saved, but between them was a smoldering heap of rubble. Two people had died; one person had been critically burned.

  The intelligence summary contained some specific assessments of damage caused by the two E-warheads and rough estimates of how long the repair efforts would take. And how much they would cost. The price tag was in the billions. Insurance lawyers were telling the press that the "act of war" exclusion clauses present in every insurance policy meant that none of the damage was covered. Other lawyers were disputing that conclusion, arguing that unless it could be shown that a foreign power was behind the theft of the submarine that had launched the missiles, the act of war clauses should not apply. What was obvious was that the insurance companies had no intention of paying anyone but lawyers a solitary dime unless and until they were ordered to do so by final judgments of appellate courts, a position that was certainly in the finest traditions of American business. Make the bastards sue.

  Yesterday the nation's financial markets were open less than an hour before the major indexes had dropped so much that authorities suspended trading. Selling pressure, reported the nation's financial press, was strong and building. The prognosticators thought that when the markets opened later this morning, they would fall to the limit in less than twenty minutes. The authorities had appealed to the SEC to suspend trading altogether. Around the world the American dollar was taking a severe beating.

  As usual, most of the items in the intelligence summary looked as if they were taken straight from the news wires, Grafton thought as he replaced the summary in its envelope.

  The United States was under attack. Even though they didn't know who or why, the reality of the attack was obvious to the investing public, which had panicked. And who could blame them?

  A stolen state-of-the-art attack submarine, a missile attack on the presidential mansion, E-warheads causing electrical meltdowns, apparent cover-ups by the administration, outrageous rumors thick as bees in a hive, a military powerless to catch the perps… and of course, there was the missing satellite. Everything these days seemed to exude a faint odor of incompetence.

  Several senators predicted spreading anarchy and the collapse of civil government — even in this age of failed dreams, that kind of talk rated headlines. Several more prominent lawmakers had appealed to the president to declare martial law.

  And yet, Jake Grafton thought, the police are directing traffic and the streets are full of people going to work.

  Surrounded by his staff, General Flap Le Beau was in his E-Ring office at the Pentagon preparing for a Joint Chiefs meeting when Jake arrived. "What should we do that we haven't done?"" The commandant tossed out that question as Jake headed for an empty chair.

  "Induce a four-mile error in the global positioning system," Jake Grafton promptly replied.

  Flap sighed. "The White House shot that one down."

  "That was yesterday. This is a new day. Let's try it again."

  "Yesterday they said that the pirates might not shoot any more missiles. And they haven't. Until they do, the politicos will look like savants."

  "Has any terrorist group claimed credit for kicking the imperialists?" Flap's chief of staff asked.

  "Four, so far. The FBI says none of them are credible."

  "What's the weather this morning?"

  "Clouds over the East Coast, General, but several hundred miles at sea the clouds dissipate and the visibility is excellent. We'll know about a cruise missile launch within two minutes."

  "That's one small positive," Flap Le Beau admitted. "The air force and navy will have everything they own out there looking."

  "Any ransom demands, General?" Another staff officer asked this question. "Any demands to release political prisoners, anything like that?"

  "Not that I know of." Flap eyed Jake. "What's the story on the FBI?"

  "They are still working on the problem of identifying the last person who went aboard America, sir. We assume the fifteen members of the Blackbeard team went aboard and one Leon Roth-berg, a civilian engineer from the sub base simulator department. That leaves one more man. The FBI is working on that tape that the Boston television station shot from a chopper of the Blackbeard team stealing the sub, seeing if there is a face on there that they haven't seen before." The tape had been running almost continuously in America and on cable stations around the world. The people in Washington hadn't seen it, of course, since they had been without electrical power for almost thirty-two hours. The television withdrawal would have been merely inconvenient anywhere else in the wired world, but without the benefit of instant feedback, the Washington politicians were operating in a painful new world.

  "The FBI is checking on the disclosure list for Cowbell," Jake said. "Krautkramer is supposed to get back to me this morning. He will have to interview those people."

  Flap looked glum. "If there has been a leak, the FBI will need months to find it, if they ever do. Man, we don't have months."

  "The pirates must have known about Cowbell, sir. Be a hell of a coincidence if they didn't. Right now that's the only lead we have."

  Flap threw up his hands in frustration.

  "In a few hours NSA may have something from the Brits," Jake concluded. "All over the world people are talking and the spooks are listening."

  "Give me a minute alone with Admiral Grafton," Flap said to his staff. The commandant led Jake back into his office and closed the door. "I had a little oral scuffle with the national security adviser yesterday evening, told her that they had given me a fool's errand. I was tired of people not leveling with me — all the usual stuff."

  "And?"

  "One item. Blackbeard was canceled because the Russians found out about it. Want to know how we learned that happy fact?" Flap's eyes narrowed. "The director of the CIA was attending a reception for the Russian trade delegation when Janos Ilin dropped the bomb over a glass of Chablis."

  Vladimir Kolnikov was sitting in the control room watching the sonar displays when the chief German engineer and five other men came in, following Georgi Turchak. They had been working on the oil circulation pump for seven hours. Behind them came Heydrich, lean and cadaverous as always, carrying a cup of coffee.

  "We have it back together," the chief engineer said. "No oil leaking, so the gaskets appear to be all right."

  "We worked as quietly as we could, used rags to try and deaden the sound," Turchak told Kolnikov.

  "Well, it's fixed now."

  Kolnikov studied the tactical display. "Rothberg, reprogram the missiles. We will launch in two hours. We will be two miles north of our current position. Then we will dive to two thousand feet, run at twenty knots for an hour, then go dead in the water and wait for the Americans to get tired of looking. We will not do any eating or moving around, no going to the toilet. I think this would be an excellent time for everyone not needed in the control or engine room to take a nap. Fortunately we have plenty of bunks. Everyone pick one, close your eyes, and check for light leaks."

  "You're crazy," Rothberg said flatly. "The Americans will see the missiles come out of the water and come charging out here like they're going to a fire. They'll be armed to the teeth and ready for anything. Dead in the water, unable to maneuver or fight, we'll be sitting ducks."

  From the look on their faces, it was obvious the others agreed with Rothberg.

  "The screws of this boat are as quiet as technology allows. Still, unavoidably, they do put low-frequency noise into the water. All of you know that. That is the only noise this boat generates, so it will be the one noise the Americans will be looking for. We must do the unexpected."

  "Jesus!" Rothberg exclaimed. "You think the U.S. Navy is some kind of third-world yacht club? They ain't the fucking Russian Navy, Jack! They're—"

  Kolnikov backhanded him across the mouth. The slap sounded loud as a shot in the control room.

  "Now all of you, listen to me," Kolnikov snarled. "You volunteered for this. Every
one of you swinging dicks."

  "You never said—" Steeckt began.

  Kolnikov cut him off. "I won't listen to your whining. I told you the U.S. Navy would hunt us, I told you the odds were against us. Heydrich told you if we made it we would all be set for life, with three million American dollars for every man. And you bought it. Each of you. Yeah, for that much money we'll risk our lives. Yeah. And all of us fools began planning where we would go and how we would live, the women, the cars, the good life…"

  He saw several smiles now and knew he had them. "Even you, Rothberg. Money for women and gambling, money to be somebody. You were tired of being a short, fat, nerdy slob working at the sub base. This was your chance. And it still is!"

  He let the silence build. Heydrich's face was impassive, impossible to read. "I'm not suicidal," Kolnikov continued. "I know what I'm doing. You men do your jobs, obey orders, and I'll do my level best to get us through this alive. No guarantees, no promises. I'll do my best."

  Kolnikov searched Steeckt's face. "There's no way to undo what we have done, no way to bring those dead American sailors back to life, to return their submarine and slip away into the crowd. We're halfway across the abyss on a tightrope. Our only choice is go forward."

  Heydrich stood in the back of the compartment sipping silently on coffee. Steeckt turned to him. "What do you say?" he asked respectfully.

  "If any of you can run this boat in Kolnikov's place, say so now."

  Several of them glanced at Rothberg.

  "He's a simulator man," Heydrich said dryly. "This is the first time he's ever been to sea. Turchak?"

  "Not me. I trust his judgment, not mine."

  Heydrich drained the coffee cup. "It seems our only alternative is to do it Kolnikov's way." Without waiting for a reply, Heydrich went down the ladder to the mess deck.

  Technicians working around the clock had gotten the SuperAegis liaison office in a Crystal City office building back in business. Emergency generators had been brought in and connected to the building's main circuit breaker panel. All the circuit breakers had been replaced, as well as most of the light switches in the building. Every portable electrical device in the building had been carried away to be disposed of, and new computers had been carried in. New telephones had been installed, new typewriters, copy machines, electric staplers, new card readers for the building's security system, new switches to operate the door locks, new security cameras and smoke detectors. The liaison staff — with their small office suite — certainly didn't rate the priority, but the building was full of other major military commands, which did. The small army of technicians who had accomplished the impossible were now gone, moved on to another government building.