Ultra Deep

by William H. Lovejoy

  Garrison ordered a greeting party out onto their own afterdeck, and Taylor followed with the instruction to stand down from General Quarters.

  Fifteen minutes later, Captain Gurevenich was led into the wardroom, and Taylor met him with a salute. Gurevenich returned the salute, and Taylor offered his hand.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the CIS captain agreed to the handshake. He had a hard, callused hand.

  “Captain, this is my executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Neil Garrison.”

  “And the Winter Storm’s navigation officer, Lieutenant Kazakov.”

  He was young and had a large bruise on his forehead, and Taylor guessed that he was a newly assigned officer. Taylor assumed the executive officer would be required to stay aboard the CIS sub.

  Taylor waved them toward seats at the table. “Would you care for coffee, gentlemen?”

  “That would be very nice, Captain Taylor.”

  The nod offered by the junior lieutenant suggested that he also understood English.

  After the steward had poured mugs with steaming coffee and withdrawn, Taylor said, “This is an unusual meeting for me, as it must be for you.”

  A nod.

  He took a long sip of the coffee, followed by an approving smile.

  “I want to assure you that we have come with the sole purpose of assisting you in the recovery of your nuclear reactor.”

  Now that got a response from the young guy. His face paled, and he looked toward his captain.

  Taylor glanced at Garrison. His exec had also noted the reaction.

  “We do appreciate your offer,” Gurevenich said, “but I believe my government has already notified yours that the recovery of the rocket is expected to be routine.”

  That was a parroting of superior instructions, if he had ever heard one, Taylor thought.

  “In any event, Captain Gurevenich, we are going to be in the immediate vicinity, and we will be happy to share with you anything we learn.”

  “That is gracious of you.”

  “If you have not already identified them, the submarines Houston and Philadelphia will also participate in the exercise.”

  “We have identified them,” Gurevenich said, again sipping the coffee.

  “Neil.”

  Garrison passed a chart to the Russian commander.

  “That is the pattern we intend to follow, so you will know who and where we are, Captain.”

  Gurevenich quickly scanned the chart. “Yes. This will be of assistance.”

  “What could possibly be more helpful is if you would share with us what you have already discovered,” Taylor suggested. “We would not be reinventing a few wheels, perhaps.”

  With a fleeting glance at the little lieutenant, Gurevenich said, “I am afraid that is impossible at this moment. I would have to confer with fleet headquarters.”

  Taylor had the distinct feeling that the response was not one Gurevenich wanted to make.

  “Yes. I can understand. Neil, do you have the other chart?”

  “Right here, Skipper.” Garrison produced the chart that had been transmitted to them only a few hours before.

  Gurevenich looked it over with more interest than he had shown in the search plan.

  “That was put together by oceanographers aboard the research vessel Orion, Captain. It is a compilation of exploration maps from expeditions in the region over the past fifteen years, and it identifies geologic structures and shipwrecks of which you may not be aware.”

  A small smile threatened the corners of Gurevenich’s mouth as he moved his forefinger about the chart, stopping to tap it in several spots. “I appreciate this very much, Captain Taylor.”

  “As I said, we are quite willing to share. You are welcome to provide copies of that chart to your sister ships. And I might add that all United States vessels in the area have been ordered to secure their weapons systems.”

  Gurevenich looked up, and this time, did smile. “That, too, is appreciated.”

  “Would you like more coffee, sir?” Garrison asked.

  “No. Thank you. We must return to our boat.”

  They all stood, and Taylor shook hands with both of them again. “I would also like to pass on to you, Captain Gurevenich, the condolences of this ship, and of the United States Navy, for the men of the submarine Tashkent. It is a tragic event, and I am certain they were a gallant crew.”

  “Thank you, Captain Taylor. It has been, indeed, a tragedy, and you are kind to think of them.”

  Garrison slipped into the galley and came back with a three-pound can of Folgers.

  “A gift from the crew of the Los Angeles to the men of the Winter Storm, Captain Gurenevich”

  Both officers appeared pleased.

  “Thank you, Commander,” Gurenevich said.

  After a chief petty officer led them away toward the afterdeck hatch, Taylor said, “That was a nice touch, Neil. Thanks.”

  “The coffee and the chart from the Orion were the only things that seemed to warm them up.”

  “The dossier on Gurevenich says he’s an able commander, but I don’t think he’s allowed to do much on his own.”

  “At least, not with that puppy he’s got in tow,” Garrison said.

  “I think you’re right. Without him in attendance, we might have gotten some of his search data.”

  “So what do we do, Skipper?”

  “Just what we planned to do aboard the Kane. We follow our revised pattern.”

  Taylor, Huck Elliot, and John Cartwright had refined the search procedures presented to them by CINCPAC, and then had further altered them when they received the charts from some oceanographer named Emry. The new pattern eliminated some fifteen square miles of search area.

  As far as Taylor knew, Cartwright had not notified CINCPAC of the changes. Maybe he never would.

  Taylor certainly was not going to mention it.

  *

  2035 HOURS LOCAL, 29° 21' NORTH, 167° 9' WEST

  During the day, they had gained on the Orion, and the research vessel was now visible to the naked eye when it was light enough to see.

  The Arienne was still in the same position, off the starboard quarter, and Curtis Aaron felt good about that. She was a newer and faster boat than the Queen, and she could have left them behind long before.

  It had to mean that Mark Jacobs was conceding leadership to Aaron on this mission.

  All day long, Aaron had been working toward that possibility, preparing alternative speeches. He was going to have an audience; he knew that. The radio had been alive with news reports filed from the scene. While there seemed to be few developments concerning the rocket and the nuclear reactor, it was very apparent that he would have an audience. Not only were there some fifty ships in the area, but a whole flock of international news people had descended. Sent, no doubt, to help Aaron spread his message.

  The world was waiting for it, too. Civil disturbances created by anxious and angry protestors were erupting everywhere. They would want to know how to proceed, guided by an expert who was not afraid to go to the heart of the matter.

  In the dark of the flying bridge, Aaron rested with his feet up on the instrument panel, stroked his beard, and contemplated all of the glorious possibilities.

  Julie Mecom brought him a rum-and-Coke, and he thanked her.

  Dawn Lengren, who was at the helm, gave Julie a dirty look.

  *

  2030 HOURS LOCAL, 34° 30' NORTH, 162° 20' EAST

  Capt. Leonid Talebov used the ship’s public-address system to announce to the officers and men of the Timofey Ol’yantsev that their mission had some possibility of risk associated with it.

  The rumors floating around the patrol ship had become rampant by the time Adm. Grigori Orlov, with the President’s assistance, had overruled Vladimir Yevgeni.

  Oberstev was relieved, though he was not so certain that the announcement would alleviate any fears among the crew. They had been specifically prohibited from mentioning the Septembe
r eighth estimate for a possible meltdown.

  He had removed his uniform blouse and his shoes, and he was sitting on the bed in the captain’s cabin. Alexi Cherby-kov poured them each a small glass of Stolichnaya vodka and then took the chair at the captain’s desk.

  When Talebov’s message was completed, Oberstev asked, “Do you suppose we shall ever overcome our distrust of the masses, Alexi?”

  “Distrust, General?”

  “Our fear of telling them what we are really doing.”

  His aide considered the point for an extended moment, then said, “I believe we will, as soon as our actions are worthy of trust.”

  Oberstev grinned. “Excellent. When will that occur, Alexi?”

  “Perhaps with the next generation,” his aide said.

  And Oberstev feared that he was correct.

  When the knock came at the doorway, Oberstev called out, “Enter!”

  The door pushed open tentatively, and Pyotr Rastonov poked his head inside.

  It was a large head, topped with close-cropped dark hair, and featuring large, inquiring eyes.

  “Come in, Captain.”

  “I do not want to disturb you, General”

  “Pour the captain a drink, Alexi.”

  Rastonov accepted the drink gratefully. He stood in the middle of the small cabin, for lack of another chair, and took a sip.

  “The Sea Lion?” Oberstev asked.

  Rastonov was in charge of the submersible and its crew of scientists and oceanographers. “It will be ready in time, General.”

  “Another problem, then?” Oberstev was beginning to see problems behind every motivation.

  “After your intervention with Captain Talebov, General, Gennadi Drozdov was allowed to speak with Valeri Dankelov aboard the American research ship.”

  “Yes, good. Was the conversation of value?”

  “Dankelov sent us a map of the ocean floor that is a compilation derived from a number of explorations.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Well, uh, General, Colonel Sodur tells me we are to disregard it. He believes it to be an item of American disinformation.”

  “And what do you think of it, Captain?”

  “I find it plausible. I think it is accurate, and Gennadi Drozdov agrees with me.”

  “Then use it.”

  Rastonov nodded, but he was not through. “There is one thing more, General Oberstev.”

  “Yes?”

  Rastonov tapped his chest with his forefingers. “I, for one, and others among my team, are somewhat…concerned about who we report to…who is in charge.”

  “I am an Air Force general officer, is that what you mean?”

  “Partly, General. And we receive instructions from Colonel Sodur, Captain Talebov, Vladivostok.”

  Oberstev had never had a field command, but he knew the problem. CIS military philosophy dictated that higher echelon commands set strategy, and simply by virtue of training, field commands were expected to perform in certain tactical ways, insuring victory in the field. All decisions were made at headquarters levels. In contrast, American philosophy allowed field commanders to make their own decisions on the scene, following only the general strategies devised by headquarters. The CIS rule book tended to fall apart in emergency situations.

  And even in nonemergency situations. From the seminars and training sessions he had been required to attend at general staff workshops, he could not see that the planners and military bureaucrats had learned anything from the misadventures in Afghanistan.

  “Thank you, Captain. I will see if I cannot clarify the chain of command.”

  After Rastonov left, Cherbykov said, “Will it be possible, General, to clarify?”

  “We are borrowing much from the Americans, Alexi, in economic and domestic issues. Perhaps it is time to borrow an American command structure.”

  “You will speak to Orlov?”

  “And demand full command and responsibility. It is my responsibility, after all.” With each day that went by, Oberstev was feeling the increasing weight of the catastrophe.

  “The Navy may take exception to Air Force Command.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Admiral Orlov could relieve you of duty.”

  Oberstev reached for his shoes. “We will see if he does.”

  September 6

  Chapter Twelve

  0700 HOURS LOCAL, 32° 12' NORTH, 169° 15' EAST

  “My inclination, General Oberstev, is to remove you from command,” Adm. Grigori Orlov said. “I am supported in that by Chairman Yevgeni.”

  It would be the only issue the two had ever agreed on, Obserstev thought.

  “However, after discussions with the general staff at Stavka and with the President, it has been decided that the situation is entirely unique. As you are familiar with the rocket and the reactor, you are to be named field commander for the duration of the recovery operation.”

  After the screaming argument Obserstev and Orlov had gotten into the night before, the admiral’s controlled voice and tone was unexpected this morning.

  Gurevenich acknowledged the change in attitude, even if it was dictated from higher authority, by displaying his own courtesy. “Thank you, Admiral Orlov. I appreciate your support in this, and I assure you that the mission will run much smoother with communications lines that are clearly drawn.”

  “I will be satisfied when the reactor is on the deck of the Timofey Olʼyantsev,” Orlov said. “Confirming written orders for your assignment will be forwarded to all ships. And Chairman Yevgeni reminds you to heed the counsel of Colonel Sodur.”

  Not bloody likely, Obserstev thought. “By all means, Admiral.”

  Both of the flag officers signed off the scrambled radio frequency, and Obserstev replaced the microphone on its desk pedestal.

  Col. Alexi Cherbykov said, “My congratulations to you, General.”

  “Let us not be premature, Alexi. Orlov mentioned my expertise with nuclear reactors.”

  “Yes, he did. Actually, what he said was your, ‘familiarity’.”

  “I have never even touched a nuclear reactor. And we did not bother bringing such experts with us.”

  “I will call Plesetsk and have a team assembled, Gen. They can be on instant call, if they are needed.”

  “‘If,’ Alexi? Let us say ‘when,’ please.”

  *

  0850 HOURS LOCAL, 27° 25' NORTH, 174° 57' WEST

  Brande wanted everyone to rest today, but unable to sleep or sit, Valeri Dankelov climbed the companionway to the bridge, then asked to use the radio compartment. He sat at the console and pulled the microphone close.

  His call was immediately answered by the Olʼyantsev’s communications operator, but it took several minutes to locate Gennadi Drozdov.

  He had met Drozdov at a conference in Paris in 1988, and they had subsequently stayed in touch with each other, occasionally sharing ideas and theories in regard to the acoustic control of robots.

  The Orion did not have direct satellite telephone communications with the Soviet ship. They would speak on an open radio frequency, subject to monitoring by any number of people and nations, and Dankelov had learned in his first, short conversation with Drozdov to be cautious in what he said. Though Dankelov had not learned a great deal from the Russian scientist in their first contact, he had managed to at least establish a dialogue.

  “Valeri, are you there? Over.”

  “Yes, Gennadi. Good morning. Over.”

  There was some static which interfered with a clear understanding of each other’s speech. After several exchanges of pleasantries, they achieved a rhythm which allowed them to drop the technical “over” at the end of each transmission.

  “Valeri, can you tell me where you are located?”

  “Not precisely,” Dankelov said. “I have not been paying attention. I believe it will be another twenty-four hours, or more, before we arrive.”

  “We should reach the impact point early in the morning, I think.
But we are prepared. The equipment is ready.”

  “Will you use the Seeker vehicle, Gennadi?”

  The hesitation before the response came told Dankelov that Drozdov had a monitor, someone to tell him yes or no in regard to his topics.

  “Yes. You already know of it. We have spoken before.”

  “I remember, though not all of the details. It has video, sonar, and manipulator arms, does it not? Similar to our Atlas with the exception of sonar capability.”

  Another pause. “Yes.”

  “And tethered control?”

  “No. No longer. We…” Another pause, while an argument took place, then Drozdov continued, “We have installed the phase four model of the Loudspeaker acoustic control system.”

  Dankelov had not known that the Loudspeaker system was already in its fourth generation of design. “You are finding success?”

  “Immense success, Valeri.”

  “I am jealous,” Dankelov said. He decided to reveal something of Brande’s plans, to encourage whoever was listening to Drozdov’s end of the dialogue that information sharing was a two-way street.

  “My own system, called, if you remember, Tapdance, is not yet operational. We will be using the DepthFinder, towing SARSCAN, for the search phase.”

  “Is this the SARSCAN model we spoke of last April?”

  “No, Gennadi. We still do not have a video capability.”

  “Therein lies the beauty of Loudspeaker Four, Valeri. We are acoustically transmitting video images.”

  “Digital encoding?”

  “Of course. We… ” Drozdov was interrupted again. When he finally came back, he said, “I must sign off now, Valeri. The radio is required for another task.”

  “I understand. Perhaps we may talk again this afternoon?”

  “I will look forward to it,” Drozdov said.

  Dankelov signed off the frequency, but continued to sit in the operator’s swivel chair. He was, in fact, jealous of Drozdov’s advances in video transmission. Jealous, but also excited. The revelation had given him something new to think about, and he wondered how much he could learn from Drozdov before this operation ended.

  The intricacies of Loudspeaker Four would be a State secret, naturally, but he hoped to discover what he could about the theory that had gone into it. Dankelov was not particularly concerned about knowing the actual schematics. He could develop his own.