“Pete?”
“Named after Pete Best,” said Garza.
“So…” McFarlane turned to the handler. “Can it really be towed?”
“Perhaps,” said the handler, sounding a little dubious.
“It has to be detonated six hundred feet above the Rolvaag,” said McFarlane. “It’s not likely to work higher or lower.”
“That’s correct,” said Gideon. “The quick-and-dirty simulation I did showed that six hundred feet is the optimal detonation point for a liquid-liquid explosion. The numbers begin to fall off the closer you detonate it to the hulk.”
“In other words, we’re talking a suicide mission,” said Glinn.
A silence.
Glinn continued, “Someone in Pete has to tow the nuke into position six hundred feet above the Rolvaag and hold it there until it goes off.”
“Why not just lower it by cable?” asked McFarlane.
“If it goes off under the Batavia,” Gideon said, “the shock wave will sink the ship. The ship has to be at least six nautical miles away.”
“Isn’t that a sacrifice worth making? So the ship sinks. We’ve got lifeboats.”
“There are many reasons why that isn’t going to work,” said Glinn, “not the least of which is the chaos on board.”
This was followed by another long silence.
McFarlane said: “I’ll do it. I’ll take it down with the Pete.”
Glinn gazed steadily at McFarlane. “No. You’ve never driven a DSV. This will be a tricky operation, towing a dangling, inert load.”
His eyes swiveled on Gideon. “Gideon,” he said, “you’re the obvious choice. You’re now an expert in DSV handling. You’re dying of an incurable disease. You’ll be dead in nine months regardless. You can trade those nine months for saving the world—not to put too fine a point on it.”
He spoke these frank truths in a steady, dull, matter-of-fact voice, not unlike an accountant reciting numbers to a client.
He continued. “A person who is staring death in the face is a special kind of person. A person who can do exceptional things. This will be one of those things.”
Gideon couldn’t immediately find his voice to reply.
The silence was broken by a sudden, sarcastic laugh from McFarlane. Everyone’s eyes swiveled in his direction.
“Well, well,” he said in a bitter tone. “It would appear that sometimes even the most obsessive behavior can bring positive results.” He thumped Glinn on the back—none too gently. “Palmer Lloyd would be pleased.” He turned to Gideon and extended his hand. “Congratulations, pardner.”
63
EYVEN VINTER LEANED back in a chair in a small annex to the rec room. Standing beside him was the other security officer, Oakes, who had joined the mutiny at the same time he had. He felt exhausted by pain and was also suffering from a certain feeling of detachment that he knew must be shock from the gunshot wounds. Neither wound was fatal, at least not if eventually treated. But his injuries had rendered him useless. And their failure to take the bridge had temporarily demoralized the group.
But now the balance of power had shifted in their direction. “Get Masterson in here,” he told Oakes.
“Yes, sir.”
His job now was to put a little fire in the belly of Masterson. He saw that Masterson was key: he had a knack for recruiting people; he was at heart a good man; people trusted him. As second assistant engineer, he knew the intimate workings of the ship and could take the conn if necessary. Many had now flocked to their cause, and those who had not were paralyzed by the growing chaos and terror on board ship. Mission control had been neutralized. Even some of the security guards assigned to keep them bottled up on the crew deck had defected. The only remaining holdouts were the captain and the officers of the bridge, along with the cadre of top EES brass—Glinn and his group. They could literally walk to the bridge, maybe without firing a single shot. The catch was blowing the bridge doors, which had been designed to keep out terrorists and any others who might commandeer the ship.
Masterson came through the door. “How are you doing?” he asked.
Vinter could see that Masterson needed direction, encouragement. He grasped the man’s hand. “I’ll survive.” He hesitated, adding a little theater: “That is, if we can get the ship to Ushuaia.”
Masterson seemed to hesitate. “Those doors into the bridge—”
“Greg, I’ve got it all worked out. Oakes here managed to retrieve some C4 from the security armory. He knows how to blow those doors.” This wasn’t completely true, but Oakes had had some training in explosives in boot camp. “Blow the doors and then you all go in. You’ve got the numbers, you’ve got the momentum, and you’ve got the weapons.”
“I understand. But the bridge is now armed to the teeth.”
“If we don’t get this ship the hell out of here, we’re all dead. Fifty-eight hours to safety—keep that number in mind. Fifty-eight hours and this is over.”
Masterson nodded.
“You’re the leader. Everyone’s looking up to you. You started this, and thank God you did. Now get everyone together and finish it. Let me tell you my plan.” He leaned forward painfully. “Blitzkrieg is the way to go. And—this is important—to make sure the bridge is not damaged.”
He drew Masterson in still closer and began to explain how the mutiny was going to work.
Captain Tulley stood beside the helmsman. Like any good captain, he maintained a serene countenance, but inside he was seething. His ship was in chaos. Order had broken down. The worms were everywhere, at least in the lower spaces of the ship. The aborted mutiny had resulted in the death of both his chief officer and the officer of the watch, and the wounding of others; the blood was still on the floor of the bridge. The mutineers had managed to commandeer the ship’s intercom and were continuously recruiting, while all other communications had been jammed or shut down by saboteurs. There were reports of widespread vandalism. Security officers had defected to the mutineers. And many people appeared to be infected by the worms, although it was almost impossible to tell just who had been infected and who hadn’t.
Tulley was confident that the officers surrounding him were still clean; no worms had been spotted on the bridge. But, to be safe, he ordered all present to pair up and watch each other’s backs.
He glanced down at the orders he had received from Glinn, brought to him in a handwritten note by Manuel Garza. The mission was going forward: they were going to explode the nuke. The ship was to remain in place until the order was received to proceed full speed ahead on a true north heading, in order to escape the shock wave of the blast. Garza had brought with him two security officers to lead the defense should the bridge be attacked again. The two, Garza had explained, were all he could find; the rest were unreliable and possibly infected, had joined the mutiny—or both.
Tulley knew a second attempt was imminent. And even as that thought crossed his mind, a massive explosion rocked the bridge, knocking him to the deck.
64
THE NUKE HAD been lowered into the ROV’s titanium sphere and secured in the framework built to carry it. It took up most of the small interior space. Leaning in through the hatch, Gideon checked over the device one last time, examining the various critical components. It remained in perfect working order.
“Now to arm it and set the timer,” he said. “How long?”
“Time to get in position?” Glinn asked Garza, who had just returned from his mission to the bridge.
“About thirty minutes, give or take,” Garza replied.
“I might suggest a fifteen-minute contingency. More, and you risk being stopped by the Baobab. Less, and if you run into a glitch you might not be in position when the nuke goes off. You’ve shut off the bomb’s remote-control mechanism?”
Gideon nodded.
“Very well. You won’t be able to abort the countdown once you’re underwater. Once that timer’s set, there’s no going back.”
Gideon nodded again.
Then he turned to the bomb, punched in the arming code. That activated the timer and LED screen. He verified that the nuke was armed, then carefully keyed in 45 MINUTES and pressed COMMIT.
Forty-five minutes left to live.
The handler shut and sealed the titanium hatch. Gideon turned and walked across the fantail deck to Pete, which had been rolled out and positioned under the crane. It gleamed in the morning light, yellow and white. Next, the ROV was attached to Pete using a heavy tow cable. The two would have to be lowered into the water in tandem—a tricky operation.
Gideon stared at Pete. The ladder was in place, the hatch open. It was all ready for him. But he did not move.
“I’ve manually disabled the Pete’s AI,” said Glinn quietly, standing by the DSV’s ladder. “I’ve done the same for the surface override—just in case somebody in mission control tries to stop you.” He paused. “It’s time…”
Gideon licked his lips, and then walked across the deck to the bottom of the ladder.
“Good luck,” said Rosemarie Wong.
“Good luck,” said McFarlane, with a wintry smile.
“Good luck,” Glinn echoed. He held out his hand and Gideon shook it. In silence, McFarlane did the same. Gideon then turned and grasped the cold steel of the ladder rung, hesitated just a moment, and then climbed up. The handler was busy manning the crane controls. The small remaining group—McFarlane, Glinn, Garza, Rosemarie Wong—were on the deck, watching. Garza raised his hand in a farewell gesture.
Gideon gave one last look around: at the morning sun rising in the robin’s-egg sky; the fantastically sculptured icebergs, licked by a slow and steady swell—and on the horizon, a distant ledge of dark cloud, heralding the approaching storm. He peered down the hatch into the dark interior of the DSV. Then he grasped the handhold at the top of the hatch, swung over, and lowered himself. As he took his place in the seat, he heard the hatch being sealed from above. Almost immediately he felt the crane lifting the DSV toward the ocean. By necessity, they were skipping the entire safety and operational checklist. Pete was a spare DSV; they hadn’t expected to use it. It had been last checked out at Woods Hole, two months ago. It might just fail.
In that case, Gideon thought, he’d be dead a few minutes earlier. Not worth thinking about. What was worth thinking about was Lispenard’s death. And her cruel life after death, her brain somehow preserved and still conscious, buried deep inside the Baobab. How strange and awful it would be, to be cut off from all sensory input, her mental processes co-opted by an alien life-form for its own “thinking.” It was a ghastly idea. But he could save her: with death.
He strapped himself in. This was going to be a lonely, one-way trip to oblivion.
Captain Tulley swam back into consciousness. He found himself lying on the deck, momentarily dazed, ears ringing, wreathed in acrid smoke. A moment later, as his head began to clear and memory returned, he fumbled for his sidearm. Two figures loomed out of the gray gloom. They grabbed him, disarmed him, threw him on his stomach, and he felt cold steel go around his wrists.
He tried to say something and was answered with a blow to the side of his head. The smoke was starting to clear and, from his position on his stomach, he saw the other officers of the bridge in handcuffs, being manhandled toward the rear bridge bulkhead. It had happened fast: a well-planned and -executed operation.
“So it’s you, Masterson,” he said, recognizing one of the men who had cuffed him.
“Yes. And I’m sorry, Captain, but we’re taking over the ship. We’re getting us out of here—and we’re not taking any more chances.”
Tulley was hauled to his feet, led to the back bulkhead, and chained there. The navigator and second officer soon joined him, and in a minute the rest were all shackled together. As the smoke cleared on the bridge, Tulley could see several bodies on the floor—the two security men Garza had brought and an able seaman, all apparently shot. The bridge windows close to the port door had been blown out and others were cracked. The main navigational station, with the radar and chartplotters, looked badly damaged.
But the mutineers were organized. In an emergency, resetting certain master controls allowed the ship to be conned completely from the bridge, bypassing the engine control room. Captain Tulley saw that this was exactly what Masterson was now doing. He knew that the man, as second assistant engineer, was capable of controlling the engine and propulsion systems.
But were the other mutineers going to be able to operate the vessel?
He looked around. They had an assistant navigator; they had a helmsman; they had lookouts; they had the ship’s best electrotechnical engineer—and a few able seamen, as well. While the electronics in the navigation area had apparently been damaged in the explosion, they still had all the charts and navigation tools at their disposal. And a bloody cell phone these days would give you any necessary GPS coordinates. But as he assessed the damage, he realized it looked like it was going to slow them down. It would be a long trip to Ushuaia.
He watched the mutineers go about their business with focus and efficiency. Even as he was making these observations, he felt the telltale rumble of the engine, felt the ship begin to respond.
They were wasting no time getting out of there.
65
THE CRANE HOISTED the DSV Pete into the air, and Gideon felt the now familiar movement as it was swung overboard. Through the downward viewport he had a glimpse of the aft deck and the small group watching him, and then the DSV was lowered. He had a final glimpse of the surface of the ocean—and a mass of white water churning away from the ship’s stern. What was this? Was the Batavia getting under way?
This speculation was cut short by a jarring landing in the water, made worse by the incipient movement of the ship. Bubbles swirled about the viewport and he heard the uncoupling of the hooks as Pete and its ROV companion were set loose from the crane.
As soon as the crane released the hooks, Gideon felt a sudden, sickening downward motion. Through the viewport he saw the heavy ROV swinging down underneath him, a dangling deadweight—and it sucked his DSV into the depths like a ball and chain, pulling him ever faster. The color of the water grew dark and then black almost immediately, as the DSV sank hundreds of feet per second in a headlong plunge into the depths.
Heart in his mouth, Gideon fumbled with Pete’s controls. If he didn’t arrest its descent, and fast, he would impact the seafloor—and it would all be over. He cleared the ballast tanks, one at a time, filling them with air to increase buoyancy. But even after this maneuver, the DSV continued to sink like a stone. Fighting down panic, he realized there was something else he could try—dropping the iron ballast weights. He was supposed to drop all four of them simultaneously when it was time to rise to the surface—except this time, he wouldn’t be rising to the surface.
Pressing a button, he dropped one weight. The descent slowed, but the DSV went crooked, tilting a little. He dropped a second from the other side and the descent slowed significantly. But the DSV, unbalanced, was now listing by a good twenty degrees.
The headlong plunge to the bottom had ceased. Gideon leaned back with an exhalation of relief. Great. Just great. Now I can die the way I planned to. Through the downward port, in the headlamps, he could see the ROV dangling below by its cable, swinging slowly from side to side, causing his own mini sub to rock.
He glanced at the timer, running in a window in one corner of the main monitor. Forty minutes.
Where was he? He hadn’t even had time to boot up many of the electronic and mechanical systems. He now switched on the most vital—propulsion, sonar, depth gauge, cameras, life support. Various screens flickered to life and the electronics began to boot.
It seemed to take forever for everything to warm up, but in reality it was only a couple of minutes. From the depth meter, he established he was three thousand feet deep and still sinking, albeit only a few feet per second. The whole DSV was tilted. It was damned uncomfortable being slanted to one side, but he reminded himself
it was only for the next…thirty-seven minutes.
Now he had to figure out where the wreck of the Rolvaag was. Nothing but empty seafloor was showing on the sonar. He raised the gain, looking for the telltale smudge of the ship. It wasn’t there. Nor could he find the sonar cloud generated by the Baobab. He fiddled with the controls, changing the gain, but it was indeed a blank seafloor below him. Somehow he had drifted away from the target area. How far had the Batavia gone before he was released into the ocean?
He felt real panic. Thirty-five minutes to go…and he had no idea where he was. He wasn’t afraid to die—but he didn’t want to die uselessly, for nothing.
…And then it occurred to him that the damn sonar horn was tilted. It was looking off to one side. Could he correct it, reorient it? Yes, he could. He worked with the dials until he had corrected for the twenty-degree offset—and there, to his relief, was the smudge of the Rolvaag, and the strange sonar cloud that indicated the presence of the Baobab. His position was offset about half a mile north of it.
This was perfect. It would be crazy to descend straight down onto the target: he would be a sitting duck for the Baobab, which would see him coming. But if he dropped down from his present position, half a mile away, he’d arrive on the ocean floor on the far side of the Rolvaag from the Baobab; he could then approach the Baobab unseen, using the ship’s hulk as cover.
He would lurk behind the wreck, hidden from the Baobab; and then, two minutes before detonation, he would drive the DSV up to six hundred feet and hold it there until the end.
Time to get going. He filled one of the ballast tanks with seawater, and the DSV began to descend more quickly.
Thirty minutes to detonation.
In four minutes the seafloor came into view. He pumped out the ballast tank and brought the Pete back to neutral buoyancy. Slowly, carefully, he let the sub drift down until the ROV was dangling only about twenty feet from the seafloor. Then he moved forward, toward the Rolvaag, half a mile away, careful to keep the wreck between him and the Baobab.
Beyond the Ice Limit Page 27