The deputy director was frowning at the map. He stabbed at the Carolina coast. "Those submarines," he said. "Could they be used to blow a hole in this clathrate cap thing?"
Schiel shrugged. "I know nothing of the Scarecrow submarines," he said, "but if they could plant some very large mines, yes, I think so. That might not be necessary, though. If they simply disturbed the clathrates sufficiently, they could start a release, which might then sufficiently lower the pressure to cause a greater release, entraining more and more clathrates as they rise to the surface. Once started, it could be a runaway effect, increasing exponentially as long as the methane held out."
Pell thought that over. "That would be a pain in the ass," he said at last, "but it doesn't sound fatal. All right, they can turn some coastal waters into club soda for a while. We might lose some shipping, but so what? It wouldn't destroy the world."
"Oh, Mr. Pell," Schiel said forgivingly, "but it quite well might. Once a large-scale release began-Well, similar events have already happened here on Earth, you know. For example, it is believed that one such might have ended the Ice Age."
The deputy director blinked at him. "What?"
Schiel nodded. "That was twenty-two thousand years ago," he said. "Geologists have determined that there was a huge landslip in the western Mediterranean at that time. That was when the Ice Age was in full force; worldwide ocean levels were the lowest ever, the amount of ice the highest. This caused some sea bottom to be exposed in the Mediterranean basin around Sardinia. There were deposits of icy methane-containing hydrates there, as there are in many shallow seas. When the sea level dropped, the pressure on them fell, as I discussed. They began to release their methane; the methane lubricated the slide; the slide released more methane-we think about half a billion tons al-together, nearly doubling the amount of methane in the atmosphere at the time. And the world warmed up and the Ice Age ended. Methane is dangerous stuff, you see. And that was just one local release. Actually," he said, sounding almost pleased to be able to tell us about it, "there is some evidence that one of the great extinctions of the geologic past took place as the result of a larger event. It was when all the present continents were joined together in one great land mass, called Gondwanaland-"
"Screw Gondwanaland," Pell snarled. "What happened?"
"Why, as you may know, methane is a very powerful greenhouse gas. There would have been wide-scale warming-"
"Warming?" Pell looked almost reassured. "We could stand some warming, couldn't we?"
But Schiel was shaking his head. "We wouldn't live long enough to see it. I don't think I've made clear just how much methane we're talking about, Mr. Pell. Released, it could form a layer of gas thirty meters deep, covering the entire world. Because it is denser than either oxygen or nitrogen, it would tend to concentrate near the surface. We can't breathe methane."
Pell's expression was icy now. "And the Scarecrow subs could make this happen?"
Schiel looked stubborn. "Given the application of enough heat or physical intervention on a wide enough scale, given the likelihood that it could become a self-sustaining reaction-"
"Yes or no, damn it!"
"Well, yes," the scientist said.
The word hung there for a while.
Then the deputy director stirred himself. "Will you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Schiel? If you'll just wait outside…"
He drummed his finger until the scientist was gone, taking his coffee with him. "All right," he said then. "What are our options? Hilda?"
She spoke right up. "We only have one immediate option, Marcus. It's out of our hands now. We have to tell the President."
"Negative," he said crisply. "You don't seem to understand. We've screwed up. We're the ones who're supposed to provide intelligence ahead of time, and we didn't do it. I'm not telling the President anything until I can tell him what we can do to fix it! We're going to sit right here until we have a plan." He gave me a look. "You, Dannerman; you know what the subs are like. What's wrong with sending out antisubmarine ships with depth charges to take every one of them out?"
He took me by surprise, and I gave him a knee-jerk response. "No! Those things are full of innocent people! It's the Scarecrows on the scout ship that make them run the subs!"
He overrode me. "Screw the innocent freaks! I'm not going to jeopardize the world's safety for a bunch of space weirdos! Hilda! Get me the Combined Chiefs right now, conference call. Wake them up if you have to."
"Hey," I said. "Wait a minute."
Marcus Pell was as tired as I was, and probably even more frazzled. It was not a good time to be getting in his hair. Staring at me in a way that promised no kindness, he took a deep breath before he spoke. "I understand your concern for these animals on the subs. I don't want to hear about it again."
"Then listen to some common sense," I said. "It can't be done. You can't locate the subs except in general terms, from what the board in our sub shows, and there are twenty-five of them. If you're lucky enough to hit one, what do you think the other twenty-four will be doing?"
"Ah," he said. "I see." He thought for a moment. Then, "You successfully invaded one sub. Could we use that transit machine thing to do the same with the others?"
Hilda answered for me. "Same problem, Marcus. There are twenty-five of them. If we were real lucky, we might get two or three before the others fired off their whatever it is they fire. No, Marcus. We can't take them out one at a time. We have to go after the scout ship."
The deputy director suddenly came to life. "Hell, yes!" he cried, excited for the first time. "That could work! A couple of those armed spacecraft are pretty close to ready. We send them off to the scout ship, blow it out of space-"
"Marcus," Hilda said, "when the Scarecrows see those ships coming at them, what do you think they would do?"
"Oh," he said. "Hell. Then we send a commando through that transit machine, same as you did for the sub. Tough men, heavily armed, they come out of that thing shooting. When you strike at the snake's head you don't have to worry about the rest of the animal. Right, Dannerman?"
I hated to pour cold water on him, but I didn't have a choice. "I don't think it would work," I said. "When we hit the one sub we had four Horch fighting machines, and we were only up against two Scarecrow warriors and a couple of Docs-and even so, they put up a hell of a fight. I'd guess there'd be more in the scout ship, and they'd probably be watching the transit machines pretty closely."
"Expecting us to attack?"
"More likely expecting the Horch, but it'd come out to the same thing."
Hilda spoke up then. "There is one alternative," she said. "Instead of sending them a raiding party, what would happen if we send a bomb?"
The deputy director was frowning.
"But that leaves all the subs still in place. Wouldn't they just push their buttons and start the methane release?"
He was looking at me. "Maybe not," I said cautiously. "If the scout ship was destroyed, the crews wouldn't be controlled anymore-except for the Dopeys. But we could get Pirraghiz on the horn to talk to them all, and they'd deal with their Dopeys. The others all hate the Scarecrows too, you know."
"So that's it," Hilda said. "We bomb the scout ship."
I found myself instinctively arguing against that one, too. "I don't think so, Hilda. We don't know how big the scout ship is, or how well bulkheaded. And there's a limit to the amount of mass the transit machine can handle at one time. A few hundred kilograms, maybe. And-"
I stopped. Hilda wasn't listening to me. As far as I could tell, her eyes were on the deputy director.
Who was looking at her with a considering expression I hadn't seen before. "You aren't thinking of chemical explosives, are you, Brigadier Morrisey?" he said.
That startled me. "Come on, Hilda," I said, "what're you talking about? Nukes? But they've been outlawed all over the world, ever since some of the terrorists got their hands on a couple."
She said reasonably, "Shut up, Danno." She waited for a m
oment to see if the deputy director was going to say anything else. When he didn't, she went on. "I've been hearing these rumors for years, Marcus. Latrine gossip. About how some nations have been cheating on the nuclear disarmament treaties, maybe stashed away a few little backpack-sized ones, just in case. Have you heard those stories, too?"
He stared at her tight-faced. Then he sighed. "Shit," he said.
"You don't have any idea how much trouble this is going to make."
"More trouble than being exterminated, Marcus?" she asked politely.
He passed a hand over his face. "All right," he said. "Let me go talk to the President."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Things went fast then. I don't know who the President gave orders to, or what the orders were, but by the time I was back in the sub, telling Pirraghiz what she would have to do about talking to the other sub crews, the word came. A special jet from some installation in Amarillo, Texas, would be arriving in two hours with "the materiel that was requisitioned." Nothing more specific than that, but I knew what that materiel was going to be.
While the Docs were left to rerig the sub's comm systems so Pirraghiz would be able to talk to the crews when the time came, Hilda and I went into Beert's room. He was making himself as comfortable as possible on the cot that had never been designed for Horch anatomy. He lifted his head languidly toward me. "Hello, Dan," he said, his voice mournful. "I was sleeping. When I came back here I found myself thinking about our friend, the Wet One whom we sent to try to liberate his people-or, more likely, to his death. Do you suppose they have killed him yet?"
It was a good question. It reminded me, a little guiltily, that I hadn't given the amphibian a thought since we got back to Earth, had never even learned his name. But when I was translating what Beert had said for Hilda, she broke in. "Screw your noble hippopotamus friend, Danno. Tell the Horch what we're going to do."
So I did. "We need your help," I finished. "Also your robot, to operate the transit machine and find the right channels."
He waved his neck around thoughtfully for a moment. "Do I have a choice about helping you?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Do you want one?"
He considered that. Then he said, "Oh, perhaps not. Of all the things I have done for you that the Greatmother might not approve, I think blowing up a ship of the Others would be about the least. Very well. Let us get the robot, and I will instruct him in what you want done."
The little Scarecrow submarine was more crowded than it had ever been intended to be, and it still stank. I had forgotten about the persistent scorched-fish smell of the sub. For the two surprisingly elderly men from Amarillo, sweating in their white laboratory coats, it was something they had never experienced before. They didn't like it. They muttered to each other as they took the hatch plates off the "requisitioned materiel" and began to set their fuses. There were four of the chrome-plated beachballs, and I only hoped that the stink wasn't making the men careless in their settings.
Marcus Pell insisted on being present, though he stayed by my side, as far away from the nukes as we could get. It wasn't very far, and of course that kind of distance wouldn't have helped a bit if they had accidentally triggered one of the damn things. At the transit machine Beert's Christmas tree was methodically sorting out channels to the scout ship, with Foozh talking to it and Pirraghiz translating. "What are they saying?" Pell demanded. His collar was loose, and he looked nervous.
"The robot says there are evidently five transit machines on the scout ship."
"Hell!" Pell groaned. "We only have four bombs."
I didn't respond to that. If four nukes couldn't do the job, we were out of luck anyway. Beert drifted over, his neck pointed toward the bomb technicians. "Why are those persons so old?" he asked.
I told him, "I've been wondering the same thing. I guess there haven't been any additions to the nuclear weapons staff in a while." Which made the deputy director demand a translation of that, too.
Then the older of the techs stood up. "We're ready. Give us the word when you want to start the operation."
"You're sure these things will still work?" Pell barked.
The man shrugged. "Sure as we can be," he said. "Everything checks optimal. How about you, Deputy Director? Are you sure this machine will get them out of here right away? Because we've got sixty-second timers on them. It'll take about half that to activate the fuse, pop the hatch back and set the first bomb in the machine. If they're still here thirty seconds later, we aren't going to know it."
Pell swallowed and turned inquiringly to me. "Ask that thing," he ordered, pointing to Beert.
There wasn't any point in asking Beert again what he had already told us ten times, so I just observed to him that it was crowded in here, and when he agreed I reported to Pell: "He guarantees it."
The man from Amarillo sighed. He glanced at his partner, then said: "All right. We'll start arming the first device."
In the event, the men from Amarillo didn't take any thirty seconds. I guess they were worried about the time pressure; anyway, they closed up the first beachball pretty quickly and the two of them together rolled it on its little wheeled pallet over to the transit machine. By the time the door was closed and the Doc activated the transmission, less than twenty seconds had passed.
And when the Doc opened the door again, the chamber was empty.
So far, so good. "Reset for the second machine," I ordered the robot. It didn't move. All it did was extend a couple of twiglets questioningly toward Beert.
Who sighed. "You will obey this person," he ordered, and it did. When it reported the setting was complete I told the technicians to ready the second bomb; which went as expeditiously as the first.
But when it came to getting ready for the third, the Christmas tree fiddled for a while, then spoke up. "No additional transit machines are in operation at the target. It appears destruction is complete."
"Thank you," I said absently, thinking. Beert could not have known what I was thinking about, but it was clear that he knew something was going on in my head.
"What is it, Dan?" he asked worriedly, just as Pell ran out of patience: "What the hell, Dannerman? Are we going to send the third bomb or not?"
I gave Pell a shake of the head and turned to Pirraghiz. "Get on the horn to the subs!" I ordered. "Tell them to take their Dopeys into custody!"
And then, as she excitedly began meowing into the microphone, I faced Beert. "Do you want to go home?" I asked.
That shook him up. His head darted to within centimeters of my face, his jaw dropped. "Dan," he whispered pleadingly, "what are you saying?"
I couldn't meet his eyes. "Just answer the question," I said.
His long neck was trembling with excitement. "Go home, Dan? My belly yearns for it! Would you allow this?"
Marcus Pell was turning from Pirraghiz to me, his expression angry. "What's she jabbering about? What's going on?" he demanded.
I ignored Pell, speaking to the Christmas tree. "Can you transmit Djabeertapritch to the machines in the nest of the Eight Plus Threes?" And when it confirmed that it could, I ordered, "Set the machine up for transmission." And then at last I turned to the nearly apoplectic deputy director.
"I just wanted to make absolutely sure," I said apologetically.
The Far Shore of Time 301
"The job's done. The survey ship is destroyed; there's nothing left to transmit to."
He made me repeat it two or three times, alternately blinking at me and at Pirraghiz as she meowed urgently into the ship-to-ship microphone. I jerked a thumb at the two remaining bombs. "Don't you think you should get the hoists back so we can get these things out of here?" I suggested.
That took him by surprise. "Right," he said, as glad as I thought he would be of the excuse to get away from them. And when he was out of the hatch to find the hoist operators, I said, "Good-by, Beert. Don't linger. If he comes back, he'll try to stop you."
Horch don't cry, but Beert's hard little nose was ru
nning as he wrapped those reptilian arms around me for a moment, then leaped into the chamber. The men from Amarillo were goggling at what was going on, but they didn't have any authority to prevent it.
I had one other thing to say to Beert. I held the door from closing for a moment, making him dart his head at me inquiringly. "Tell them for me, Beert," I said. "Tell them we will fight the Others in every way we can. We won't let them conquer us. But if we have to, we will fight the Horch as well. Tell them that."
"I will tell them, Dan," he said as I closed the door. And when it opened again the chamber was empty.
PART TWELVE
VICTORY
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
By the time Beert was gone the deputy director was already scrambling back down the ladder, shouting my name in a very unfriendly way. I didn't look at him. For that matter, I didn't stop to rejoice, or even take a deep breath; I had more important things to take care of.
First priority was giving Pirraghiz the orders to pass on to the sub crews: "Tell them all to turn off their transit machines and keep them off. Make sure they do that! Then," I added as an afterthought, "tell them all to head out to deep water and stay there." I didn't want any of them where somebody could try a depth bomb.
When I was sure she was passing the word on I turned back to die deputy director, interrupting his tirade. "I'm sorry, Marcus," I said, reasonably politely, "but I'm too busy to talk to you now."
That was nowhere near the kind of deference he was used to, and it made him yell even louder. "The hell you say! You've got a lot of explaining to do, Dannerman!"
Eschaton 03 Far Shore of Time Page 24