by Joe Buff
Jeffrey nodded.
“Good. Then kindly leave my office.”
Jeffrey turned and opened the door.
“Oh, and Captain.” Wilson’s tone was suddenly perfectly normal, as if the whole conversation had never taken place.
I wish I had his self-control…. Aha. Again he’s trying to teach me—by example—provided I’m willing to learn.
“Sir?” Jeffrey said in as even and polite a tone of voice as he could muster.
Wilson actually smiled, fleetingly, as if a grin from him were precious coin and he tightly held the purse strings.
“Captain, there are other things I know that now you also need to know. Arrange a mission briefing in your wardroom in one hour, please. Invite the SEAL team leaders Clayton and Montgomery, and your key officers, including Lieutenant Reebeck.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Several days later, south of New Zealand, aboard Voortrekker’s minisub
VAN GELDER WATCHED and listened, amazed that all this was happening and that he was here to see.
“I repeat,” the Kampfschwimmer chief ordered into the mike with some impatience. “Confirm you are on the bottom.”
The German chief, squashed in standing up, looked past Van Gelder’s shoulder as Van Gelder sat in the minisub’s copilot seat. Commander Bauer was the pilot, elbow to elbow on Van Gelder’s left.
The chief read the display screens in the mini’s cramped and dimly lit control compartment. They showed the data feed from his divers now fully six kilometers deep under the mini. The fiber-optic data line and the strong lift cable to which it was braided were the only links to the pair of men in the unimaginable depths below. The mini itself hovered submerged at only fifty meters. It was Van Gelder’s job as copilot to hold it at that depth, rigged for ultraquiet.
Van Gelder saw an acknowledgment appear from the divers, typed letter by letter on one of the screens.
“As you notice,” Bauer whispered to Van Gelder, “the normal initial reaction of someone on the bottom is a slowing of responses, both mental and physical. This is caused by the disorienting environment as much as by the seawater pressure. It passes quickly as the men adjust.”
The divers could receive speech over the fiber-optic line. But because their helmets and lungs were filled with the oxygen-bearing fluid, they could only respond by typing on small keyboards among their equipment. The men seemed cocky enough to Van Gelder when they suited up in the mini, but Bauer’s stiff, clipped manner betrayed his anxiety for their safety.
Van Gelder felt fear too, and not just for the human-fish divers. Divers and minisub both were literally on top of an enemy hydrophone sound-surveillance line.
Another screen activated in front of Van Gelder, but at first showed nothing from below. Then an eerie image appeared: glows and flashes reaching into the middle distance in the picture. Bioluminescence, even that far down.
“Confirmed your camera working in low-light-level mode,” the German chief stated.
All the way down there, a bright floodlight suddenly lit a section of the sea floor.
“Still good feed from the camera,” the chief said into the mike. Again a painstakingly typed acknowledgment came back.
“We require constant visual contact,” Bauer said. “As their topside support, we must see to help resolve any problems they face.” One of the mini’s screens gave vital-sign telemetry from each diver’s body. Bauer kept a careful eye on his men.
Van Gelder studied the picture. The water was clear out to only ten meters or so; anything beyond was obscured by murk and by back-glare from the floodlight. Particles of organic detritus from high above drifted past the camera slowly. The sea floor itself was uneven but mostly flat, covered with muddy ooze that looked gray-tan on the full-color image.
“Bottom anchor positioned” appeared on the screen. “Pressure capsules in place for return to minisub.” The camera swiveled to show the special anchor at the far end of the strength cable. Clipped to the cable were the two one-man transfer capsules—they still reminded Van Gelder of coffins.
“Very well,” the chief responded. “Remember, work quietly.”
Van Gelder used his throttle and his joystick more frequently now, gingerly holding the minisub over the divers so the cable wouldn’t be overstressed, or too slack, or worst of all get dragged along the bottom. The neutrally buoyant cable floated weightlessly through the water, but ocean currents tugged at it constantly. The currents were not very strong, but their speed and direction varied at different depths—Van Gelder had his hands full, even with help from the navigation computer. Given more than six thousand meters of cable played out, the moving water’s drag force was considerable.
There are several crewmen on Voortrekker who could do this as well as or better than I. Why did ter Horst send me? Am I here because he only trusts Bauer so far? Why do I keep feeling Bauer still hasn’t told me everything yet?
A new message came on the screen. “Deploying tools and equipment.”
Van Gelder saw an arm move in front of the camera for a moment, as one of the divers did something. The arm was swathed in silvery material like a space-suit sleeve, and Van Gelder reminded himself the suit was lined with plutonium. The image shifted as the first diver repositioned the camera. The other diver walked by, into the distance, his back to the lens. The man moved slowly against the resistance of the water. Van Gelder saw the backpack which fed oxygen to the man’s lungs, and which also removed waste gases by diverting and processing blood through the implanted surgical ports.
The diver carried heavy equipment cases with both hands. His backpack and his cases all trailed tethers back to the cable anchor, so nothing and no one could get lost in the mud or the murk. The man stepped very carefully, to keep silent and not spoil visibility. Each footprint stirred up ooze, making a small cloud. The mild bottom current carried the puffs of ooze away.
Van Gelder felt as if he were watching men walk on the moon. The world these divers had entered was so alien and dangerous, they might as well be on the far side of the moon. They worked in seawater under pressure at a staggering six hundred atmospheres—enough to crush Voortrekker’s hull in an instant. Tons and tons of icy ocean squeezed their bodies from every side, and squeezed their body tissues from inside too.
“Enemy SOSUS feed line located” came on the screen.
Simultaneously, on Challenger East of New Zealand
Challenger made her mostly-flank-speed crossing of the Pacific unmolested. She hugged crags in the rugged bottom terrain along the way for stealth. For even better concealment, and in consultation with Ilse, Jeffrey had the ship stay under the complex thermal and salinity layers of the El Niño current as much as he could. During the days-long transit to reach the area of operations, Jeffrey made sure constant drills and training and maintenance kept the crew on their toes and prepared the ship for battle.
Then, based on specific directions from Wilson, Challenger made her rendezvous with the four Australian Collins-class diesel subs.
That rendezvous had taken place a few hours ago. Now, Jeffrey glanced around the wardroom—his wardroom, the wardroom of the squadron flagship, Challenger. Commodore Wilson was about to adjourn the formal commanding officers’ conference.
The captains’ conference at the start of a squadron’s working together was a time-honored naval tradition. The only difference today was that the warships were all submarines, submerged for stealth, and the captains came to the flagship riding Challenger’s minisub.
The captains of the Australian boats seemed confident and determined. They’d just spent a good deal of time reviewing Wilson’s basic combat doctrine. They critiqued his system of signals to control the undersea battle group, and went over his scheme for exploiting vital early warning data from the SOSUS grid. These were the topics Wilson, Lieutenant Sessions, and Jeffrey had sweated over for days.
Everything looked great on paper, and all the major questions by the diesel skippers were answered. They appeare
d to understand Wilson’s intentions very clearly. The meeting began to break up.
But Jeffrey kept remembering the weaknesses of the Collins boats. He knew that in the impending clash with Voortrekker they were expendable. As Jeffrey looked around the room, he wondered how many of the visiting captains and their crews would still be alive at the end of the week. He liked them, these open, expressive, capable Australians, and he wondered if at the end of the week he would be alive to mourn their loss.
On Voortrekker’s minisub
“Diver Two,” the Kampfschwimmer chief said, “your reaction time is slowing. Increase your nutrient flow.”
Van Gelder saw Diver Two turn toward the camera and make a quick hand signal for agreement. Then he touched the controls on the front of his suit.
“One great advantage of these dialysis backpacks,” Bauer said, “is since we’re already hooked up into their veins, we can feed the divers intravenously while they work. This gives them tremendous endurance.” He looked Van Gelder arrogantly in the eyes. “Have you ever tried to eat underwater wearing scuba gear?”
“No. I’ve rarely skin-dived at all.”
Bauer looked contemptuous…or displeased. Van Gelder thought best to ignore it—this was the worst possible time to rise to Bauer’s baiting. Bauer seemed to read his mind, and seemed satisfied.
“Diver One,” the chief said into the mike, “why have you stopped working?”
Diver One didn’t respond. Van Gelder saw him adjusting his suit controls.
Bauer checked the diver’s vital signs. He frowned. He grabbed the mike from the chief. “Diver One, your oxygen mix is too high. Reduce your oxygen mix.”
Diver One awkwardly waved an acknowledgment. He kept bending forward, fiddling with his chest-mounted controls.
“Diver One, your oxygen mix is still rising. Reduce your oxygen mix.”
Van Gelder worried that something was going wrong. He knew that for any diver, however and whatever they breathed, too much oxygen under pressure caused convulsions. At six thousand meters, the margin between life and death was very thin.
“Diver Two,” Bauer said, “assist Diver One. Check his backpack for him.”
Diver Two moved closer to Diver One. They talked using hand signals Van Gelder didn’t understand. Diver One’s movements were getting jerky.
“Diver One, calm down,” Bauer ordered.
Diver One’s arms and legs started shaking.
“Two, get One calmed down. Lower his oxygen level, fast.”
Two grabbed One and worked the controls on One’s chest.
The chief leaned past Van Gelder and pointed at the bio-data screen. “Level still rising, Commander.”
Bauer took a deep breath. “We have an equipment problem.”
Diver Two turned to the camera and shrugged.
“This is what I was afraid of,” Bauer said to Van Gelder. “With backpacks we can’t buddy-breathe, like sharing an air tank mouthpiece. Diver One is in trouble.”
Diver One began to shake uncontrollably. He typed something on his keyboard but it was gibberish.
“Two,” Bauer urged, “get One into his pressure capsule. We have to bring him up.”
But Two began to fight with One, a weird wrestling match in slow motion shown starkly in the floodlights.
“He’s become irrational, sir,” the chief stated, belaboring the obvious.
Suddenly Diver One broke away from Two and unclipped his tether. He jettisoned his weight belt and started for the surface.
“One, One!” Bauer ordered. “Return to the bottom now.”
Diver One was out of the camera picture already, on his way up, propelled by too much positive buoyancy that would just get worse as he rose. Diver Two pointed upward and held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“Two, stay on the bottom.”
“He’ll die,” Two typed on his keyboard.
“Two, stay on the bottom.” Bauer spoke soothingly now, but Van Gelder could tell his effort was forced. “Finish the job yourself…. You’re almost done, you can do it,” Bauer coaxed.
“But my buddy?” Two typed poignantly.
“Leave him to us.”
Two shook his head. “No.”
“I said leave him to us. There’s nothing more you can do for him. Finish the job you both started.”
Diver Two hesitated, then acknowledged reluctantly. He trudged away from the camera and went back to work, installing the equipment that fed false data into the Allied SOSUS net.
The chief made sure the mike to the bottom was off. “If One’s body reaches the surface, sir,” the chief said to Bauer, “we’ll leave a sign for the enemy that we’re here.”
“I know,” Bauer said. “You and your dive buddy get suited up.” An enlisted Kampfschwimmer tended equipment in the back of the minisub. He and the chief donned their Draeger rebreather scuba rigs. They went into the mini’s central swimmer lockout sphere and dogged the heavy hatches. Van Gelder did not envy them their task.
“Copilot,” Bauer ordered, “come to ten meters depth.”
“Ten meters, aye aye.” Van Gelder was glad to have something to do, yet he dreaded what would happen next. As he went shallow, the minisub pitched and rolled heavily. The outside seas were rising as a major storm approached. The mini’s motion was much rougher than usual, and the trim was unstable, because of the drag load against the stern-mounted winch reel caused by the long cable played out below. The cable yanked against the back of the minisub each time a passing wave surged and heaved. Van Gelder prayed the noise wouldn’t give them away.
Holding as close to ten meters depth as he could, Van Gelder worked his control panel. He raised the air pressure in the lockout sphere to a mild two atmospheres, to equalize it with the outside water. Before the chief and his dive buddy could exit through the bottom hatch to search for Diver One, Van Gelder heard a desperate banging against the minisub’s hull.
Bauer used the intercom into the lockout sphere. “For God’s sake get him inside and get him quiet.” If Diver Two hadn’t completed the main part of his work, any noise One made would reveal their presence to enemy forces. “Copilot,” Bauer snapped, “you have the conn.” Van Gelder acknowledged. Bauer stood up.
When Diver One was in the sphere and the bottom hatch was shut, Van Gelder dropped the pressure back to one atmosphere. Bauer opened the hatch from the control compartment into the sphere. Van Gelder, both hands on the helm controls, glanced aft through the hatchway.
Diver One was lying on his back, twitching and jerking. His space suit had inflated like a balloon. It failed at the helmet joint, and saline solution sprayed explosively. Some of it squirted forward and drenched Van Gelder. He looked at himself and saw his clothes were tinged with mucus and blood—from Diver One’s rupturing lungs. Diver One wheezed on the deck, struggling for breath like a drowning asthmatic. To Van Gelder the sound was oppressive, sickening.
“Get him into the spare capsule,” Bauer snapped. “If we can re-equalize him to six thousand meters—”
“He’ll die anyway,” the chief snapped back. “His backpack’s wrecked. He’s had it.” Diver One gave a strangled burbling moan. Van Gelder had no choice but to listen as he worked his helm controls. He glanced aft again, in spite of himself.
Diver One spit out more saline solution and blood. His eyes bulged and his face began to swell. At six kilometers down, water was compressible, by about three percent. Now all that water infused throughout One’s body expanded back relentlessly. Even his nose and ears seemed much too big.
Van Gelder heard a crackling, crunching sound.
“Jesus,” the chief said. “His bones. They’re shattering from inside.” One rolled onto his stomach, in agony, then rolled again, flat on his back. The crackling noise went on.
Diver One writhed and tried to scream, but only a choking gurgle came out now. His tongue became horribly swollen, protruding from his mouth. His jaw worked spastically, and he chewed right through his tong
ue. The end of it plopped to the deck—Van Gelder could no longer watch. He wished he could release the controls and cover his ears.
He heard One’s joints begin to pop apart, with a ripping as tendons gave way; the water in One’s tissue compartments continued to force its way out. One’s limbs flailed more insanely. His gasping, hacking cough grew weak.
Soon there was stillness and quiet, except for the survivors’ heavy breathing, and the sound of bloody water dripping from the bulkheads. The smell of it, and of body waste, made Van Gelder nauseous.
“Be careful with the backpack,” Bauer said. “We’ll need to take it apart and see what went wrong.”
The chief and the enlisted Kampfschwimmer nodded.
“Put him in the spare pressure capsule,” Bauer said very coldly. “We’ll use it as a body bag…. His suit looks mostly intact, but check for plutonium leakage.”
Simultaneously, on Challenger
Gentle snoring came from the topmost bunk in the little stateroom, but Ilse tried to ignore it. She was too busy cramming manuals and schematics at the small fold-down desk.
Yes, Kathy Milgrom snored—but she was Ilse’s best friend and confidante, so it was hard to feel annoyed. Besides, Kathy said that Ilse often cried or moaned when she was sleeping. Ilse had a lot, maybe too much, on her mind.
Ilse paused to rub her tired eyes. She stood for a minute and stretched, to get the kinks out of her back. She glanced longingly at her neatly made bunk, the middle one, under Kathy’s—the bottom one in the three-man stateroom was crammed with boxed supplies for the ship’s office, since every cubic inch of spare space inside Challenger’s hull was needed for storage.
Ilse sat down again. She knew she really ought to turn in and get some rest. But late-night hard work disguised her chronic insomnia…and insomnia held back the awful dreams. Ilse tried to look on the bright side.
Only another day and I’m off. It’ll be good to get away from Jeffrey and the ship. I never expected that being here would be so awkward for me now.