It didn’t take long to find a company that seemed to be working more along his lines. Hawkes Ocean Technologies, based in Point Richmond, California, had an excellent reputation, and not just within the industry. Hollywood often relied on its expertise whenever high-tech vessels were required. Graham Hawkes, a renowned engineer and inventor, had founded the firm in the mid-nineties to pursue his dream of flying under water.
Roscovitz had drawn up a wish list and placed it on the table with a large amount of cash. He had one stipulation: the firm would have to undercut every known record for building a submersible.
The cash had sealed the deal.
As the scientists lined up on the jetty at ten thirty, clad from head to toe in thermally insulating neoprene suits Roscovitz was pleased to be able to teach them something for once. The induction for the military and crew had taken place in Norfolk, Virginia. Most of them were navy SEALs, who were so used to the water that they’d practically grown fins. But Roscovitz was determined to ensure that the scientists were capable of deep-sea flying and fighting as well. He knew that things could happen during an expedition that meant civilians had to play a decisive role.
He instructed his chief technician, Kate Ann Browning to lower one of the four submersibles from the rail overhead. Deepflight 1 descended slowly towards them. The underside of the boat resembled a larger-than-life Ferrari without wheels, equipped with four long, thin cylinders. He waited until it was suspended at eye-level, four metres above the deck and directly over the basin. Seen from that angle, it had little in common with a conventional submersible. Flat, wide and almost rectangular in shape, with four thrusters mounted at the rear and two partially transparent body pods sloping up towards the front, the Deepflight looked more like a spaceship. Below the transparent domes, a pair of articulated arms protruded from the bow. Most noticeable of all were the vessel’s stubby wings.
‘I expect you’re thinking it looks like a plane,’ said Roscovitz, ‘and you’d be right. It is a plane, and it’s every bit as manoeuvrable. The wings serve the same purpose as they would on a plane, only they’re angled in the opposite direction. The wings of an aeroplane generate lift. The wings on a Deepflight generate a downward force that counteracts the lift. Even the steering system is modelled on aeronautical principles. You don’t sink like a stone’ you move at an angle of up to sixty degrees, so you can bank elegantly from side to side or shoot up or down.’ He made swooshing noises as he demonstrated the movements with the flat of his hand. He pointed to the pods. ‘The main difference from an aeroplane is that you don’t sit down. You lie prone. That way the height of the vehicle is kept to just one point four metres for a surface area of three by six metres.’
‘How deep can it dive?’ asked Weaver.
‘As deep as you like. You could fly straight to the bottom of the Mariana Trench in less than ninety minutes. This baby can fly at twelve knots. The pressure hull is ceramic and the transparent domes are acrylic, enclosed in titanium. It’s safe at any depth. It also provides a fantastic panoramic view, which will help us decide whether to turn tail or take aim.’ He pointed to the underside. ‘We’ve equipped our Deepflights with four torpedoes. Two are loaded with a small amount of explosive - enough to seriously injure a whale, or maybe even kill it. The other two will do even more damage. You can use them to blast through rock or get rid of an entire pack of whales. But please leave the missiles to the pilot, unless, of course, he’s dead or unconscious, in which case you won’t have much choice.’
Roscovitz clapped his hands.
‘You can fight among yourselves for the chance to be first for a test flight. And there’s one more thing you should know. The fuel will give you eight hours’ flight time. If you get stuck anywhere, the life-support system will provide you with sufficient oxygen for ninety-six hours. Either way, there’s no need to panic - by then God’s very own taskforce, the US Navy, will have come to your rescue. So, who wants to go first?’
‘Without any water?’ asked Shankar, casting a sceptical look at the basin.
Roscovitz grinned. ‘Would fifteen thousand tonnes be enough?’
‘Er…well, I guess so.’
‘Here goes, then. Let’s flood the deck.’
Combat Information Center
Two radio operators had been detailed to fill in for Crowe and Shankar while Roscovitz was instructing the scientists. The guys were killing time. Strictly speaking, they were supposed to keep their mouths shut and their ears open, but they knew they could rely on the computer, as well as on Shankar’s SOSUS team back home in the States. If any noise were to emerge from the depths, it would be picked up onshore by countless electronic systems and human brains, then filtered out and sent back to the Independence with a full analysis and report. Crowe’s message had been sent from the vessel, and the Independence was listening for a reply, but she was only one of many listening posts. If the yrr were to answer, the sound would be picked up by the Atlantic Ocean’s hydrophone array. Using the distances between the hydrophones and the time taken for the signal to reach each one in turn, the computer could calculate the position from which the signal had been sent. The information would be forwarded to the CIC, where the operators would be bound to see it.
Trusting in the power of technology, the men were engaged in an impassioned musical debate. They were so caught up in white hip-hop that it didn’t occur to them to glance at the screens. Eventually one reached across to pick up his coffee and glanced round. He stared.
‘Jeez! What the hell is that?’
Coloured waves were flickering over two screens.
The other man stared too. ‘Since when have they been there?’
‘Dunno.’ The radio operator peered at the lines. ‘We should have been notified by the onshore team. How come they’re not calling? They must be receiving it too.’
‘Is that the frequency Crowe used for the message?’
‘Don’t ask me. I’m not getting any audible noise, though - must be ultrasound or infrasound.’
The other guy thought for a moment. ‘The nearest hydrophone is off the coast of Newfoundland. Sound takes a while to travel, but no one else has picked up the signal, which means…’
‘It’s coming from here.’
Deepflight
The hydraulic system set to work noisily as the vast ballast tanks flooded. The Independence’s stern sank slowly through the water as seawater rushed inside.
‘There’s also the option of admitting water via the sluice,’ Roscovitz shouted above the noise, ‘but that would mean opening the hatches simultaneously, which would breach our security, so it’s something we’re keen to avoid. We get round it by using a specially designed pump system. A closed loop of pipes feeds water up to the deck. It’s filtered several times before it gets here. The basin is lined with sensors, like the sluice, so you can be sure the water’s safe before you jump into the pool.’
‘Will we be testing the boats in the basin?’ asked Johanson.
‘Hell, no - we’re going to fly them outside.’
Now that the dolphin fleet had reported the retreat of the orcas, Roscovitz felt satisfied that they could risk a few dives.
‘My God.’ Rubin was staring at the frothing water in the basin. He appeared to be frozen to the spot. ‘It looks as though we’re sinking.’
Roscovitz grinned at him. ‘I’ve been on a sinking warship and, trust me, it’s nothing like this.’
Metre by metre, the stern of the enormous vessel sank deeper into the water. The Independence was too large for anyone to feel her tilting. The change was minimal - it would have taken a spirit level to detect it - but the effect on the well deck was astonishing. The water level rose until it was lapping the edge of the jetty. Within a few minutes, the deck had been transformed into a four-metre-deep pool. By now the dolphin tank was underwater, which allowed its occupants to swim the full length of the deck. The Zodiacs drifted on the surface, moored securely to the embankment. Deepflight 1 bobbed gently o
n the waves.
Browning let down another submersible from the rail overhead. She was standing at the control panel, operating the joystick. One by one she manoeuvred the boats along the monorail until they were lined up next to the jetty. Then she opened the pods. They clapped open like fighter-plane cockpits.
‘Each pod can be opened and closed individually,’ she explained. ‘Getting in is easy, although you might be soaked on your first attempt. The water is heated on its way into the basin so it’s a balmy fifteen degrees, but don’t think of taking off your suits. If you were tipped into the ocean without one, it would all be over in minutes. The water temperature off the coast of Greenland reaches a maximum of two degrees.’
‘Any questions?’ Roscovitz organised the first groups, pairing scientists with pilots. ‘Let’s go, then. We’ll stick close to the vessel. Our friendly colleagues from the dolphin fleet have given us the all-clear, but things could change at any moment. Leon, you’re coming with me. We’ll take Deepflight 1.’
He jumped on to the boat, which lurched from side to side. Anawak tried to copy him, but lost his balance and landed in the water. He spluttered to the surface and was greeted by laughter.
‘I guess that’s what I meant,’ Browning said drily.
Anawak pulled himself on to the hull and slid into the pod on his belly. To his surprise it felt comfortable and roomy. He wasn’t lying completely flat; the pod slanted upwards, so his body assumed the position of a ski jumper in mid-flight. In front of him he found a control panel. Roscovitz switched on the power, and the pods closed soundlessly.
‘Not exactly the Ritz, eh, Leon?’
The commander voice boomed out of the loudspeakers and into Anawak’s ears. He turned his head. A metre away from him, Roscovitz was looking out of his acrylic pod and grinning at him. ‘See that joystick in front of you? Remember I told you it’s like a plane? Well, that’s how it flies. So you’re going to have to learn to fly it like a plane - gaining and losing height, banking round. You need to be able to move in all four directions. It’s equipped with four thrusters that generate sufficient counter-force to allow the vehicle to hover. I’ll fly the first loop, then you’ll take over, at which point I’ll tell you what you’re doing wrong.’
All of a sudden the vessel tipped forward. Water washed over the acrylic domes, and they banked down in a gentle curve. Floodlights lit up at the bow and on the wings. Anawak saw the planks at the bottom of the basin. slide beneath them, and then they were hovering at the opening to the sluice. The flaps opened to reveal a shaft that stretched down several metres, fully lit, with a dark steel hatch at the bottom. The Deepflight sank leisurely through it and the glass flaps closed above them. He felt a wave of queasiness.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Roscovitz. ‘They’ll let us out pretty quickly. It’s coming back in that takes time.’
The steel flaps juddered into motion. As the enormous metal panels moved apart, the view opened up to show the dark, featureless expanse of the depths. The Deepflight sank into the unknown.
Roscovitz accelerated and banked round. The boat turned onto its side. Anawak was enthralled. He’d driven conventional submersibles designed for use in the upper layers of the ocean, but this was different. The Deepflight handled the water like a sports plane. And it was fast! In a car, fourteen miles per hour - the equivalent of twelve knots - would seem slow, but underwater the Deepflight was displaying an amazing burst of speed. He watched in fascination as they emerged from beneath the Independence and the rippling surface of the water came into view overhead. Roscovitz dipped the nose of the submersible at a precipitous angle. He banked round again, headed towards the stern of the helicopter-carrier and dived back under. Above them, the enormous rudder blade of the vessel whizzed by.
Then Roscovitz banked sharply. Anawak kept expecting to see the round black-and-white face of an orca appear before them, but instead two dolphins peered in. With cameras on their heads, they pranced jauntily around the submersible.
‘Smile, Leon!’ laughed Roscovitz. ‘You’re on camera!’
Then a light flashed on. ‘You’re taking over,’ said Roscovitz. ‘If anything comes along and tries to eat us, we’ll give it a brace of torpedoes for breakfast. But I’ll take care of that. You focus on steering.’
Anawak was momentarily flummoxed. His grip on the joystick tightened. Roscovitz hadn’t told him what to do, so he headed straight on.
‘Hey, Leon, no snoozing at the wheel. I’ve been on bus journeys that were more exciting than this.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Anything. Fly us to the moon!’
The moon in this scenario must be below us, thought Anawak. Here goes.
He thrust the joystick forward.
The Deepflight’s nose jerked down and they headed into the depths. Anawak stared into the darkness. He pulled the joystick towards him, this time more gently. The boat straightened. He tried a curve, but turned too sharply. He tried another. He knew he was steering too jerkily, but really it was easy. It was all a question of practice.
Ahead he spotted a second Deepflight. Suddenly he started to enjoy himself. He could have carried on for hours.
‘Not bad, Leon. I reckon your technique’s enough to make anyone travel-sick, but that’s nothing we can’t fix. Now put her on the horizontal. Excellent. That’s it, drift along slowly. Now let’s have a go at operating the articulated arms. There’s nothing to it.’
After five minutes Roscovitz took over the controls and guided the boat slowly into the shaft. There was an agonising minute inside the sluice, but then the glass flaps opened and they surfaced. Anawak wasn’t sorry to be back: the early-morning visit from the orcas had unnerved him. And there were all the other surprises that the sea might spring on an unsuspecting pilot.
Roscovitz opened the pods, they lifted themselves out of the boat and jumped on to the jetty.
Floyd Anderson was waiting for them. ‘How was it?’ he asked. He didn’t seem to care.
‘Fun.’
‘Well, folks, the party’s over.’ The first officer watched the second boat surface. ‘As soon as you guys stick your heads under water, stuff happens. We’ve picked up a signal.’
‘What?’ Crowe joined them. ‘What kind?’
‘We were hoping you could tell us.’ Anderson stared straight past her. ‘It’s loud, and it’s coming from somewhere nearby.’
Combat Information Center
‘A low-frequency signal,’ said Shankar. ‘Same pattern as Scratch.’
Shankar and Crowe had rushed to the CIC. In the meantime they’d received confirmation from the onshore station. According to their calculations, the noise was coming from the vicinity of the Independence.
Li walked in. ‘Can you make any sense of it?’
‘Not right away.’ Crowe shook her head. ‘We’ll need some help from the computer. We’ll get it to break down the signal and start looking for patterns.’
‘Call me some time next year.’
‘Is there a problem?’ Shankar growled.
‘I was just wondering how you intended to decipher it in a viable timescale, when your guys at NOAA have been puzzling over Scratch for years.’
‘And you’re asking that now?’
‘Come on, children.’ Crowe scrabbled around for her cigarettes and lit up. ‘I keep telling you that communicating with an alien species is an entirely different matter. Yesterday’s signal was probably the first human message that the yrr have been able to decode. They’ll reply in a similar format.’
‘You really think they’ll use the same coding?’
‘Well, if the yrr exist, if this is a message, if they understood our code, and if they’re interested in talking to us - then, yes, I do.’
‘Why are they using the infrasound spectrum and not a frequency we can hear?’
‘Why shouldn’t they use infrasound?’ Crowe asked, surprised.
‘You’d think it would be diplomatic.’
; ‘If a Russian were to address you in bad English, would you reply to him in Russian?’
Li shrugged. ‘OK, whatever. But what now?’
‘We’ll stop transmitting our message. That’ll signal to them that we’ve picked up their transmission. We’ll know soon enough if they’ve been using our code. They’ll have tried to make it easy to decipher. Whether we’re smart enough to grasp what they’re telling us is another matter.’
Joint Intelligence Center
Weaver was attempting the impossible. She was trying to disregard all the existing research about the evolution of intelligent life - and, at the same time, confirm its findings.
Crowe had explained that every theory on the existence of alien civilisations hinged on the same set of questions, including: how big or small could intelligent life-forms be? In SETI circles, where the focus was on interstellar communication, people were busy hypothesising about beings whose gaze was turned towards the skies - extra-terrestrials who had entertained the possibility of other worlds and had decided to make contact. Such beings would almost certainly live on dry land, so there were clear limitations governing their size.
Astronomers and exobiologists had recently come to believe that a planet would have to possess no less than 85 per cent and no more than 133 per cent of the Earth’s mass to generate surface temperatures conducive to the development of intelligent life within one to two billion years. The dimensions of this hypothetical planet had implications for its gravitational field, which in turn allowed certain conclusions to be drawn about the anatomy of any beings that might live there. Theoretically a living creature could grow infinitely large on an Earth-like planet. In practice, though, it would be limited by the ability of the body to bear its own weight. Dinosaurs, of course, had developed extraordinarily large bones, but their brains had failed to keep up. They were designed for lumbering, eating and not much else. Accordingly, there was a rough rule of thumb: intelligent non-stationary life-forms were unlikely to grow more than ten metres tall.
The Swarm: A Novel Page 73