Ultra Deep

by William H. Lovejoy

  As the submersible swung out over the side of the ship, Oberstev and Talebov, Sodur trailing behind, walked back toward the superstructure. They would monitor the mission from the combat information center.

  “I am optimistic, Captain Talebov. Far more so this morning.”

  “I wish that I shared your mood, General.”

  “We have the charts the Americans sent to us. We have the updated sonar contacts discovered by the Winter Storm. The search narrows, Captain.”

  “You should not trust the American charts,” Sodur interrupted. “They intentionally mislead us so that they can steal our prize.”

  Oberstev looked out at the sea, huge waves that crashed against the hull, spewing white foam, and causing the massive ship to heel and dive.

  He looked back at Pod-Palcovnik Sodur and asked, “How would you like to go for a swim, Colonel?”

  *

  0118 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 39" NORTH, 176° 10' 52" EAST

  Thomas had boarded the Bronstein by way of a breeches buoy catapulted from the frigate to the research vessel.

  She was wearing long johns under her jumpsuit and a blue parka with the MVU logo, but the bouncing breeches buoy had dipped her to within a few feet of the surface, and she had been drenched from the knees down. She shivered as she stood on the bridge with Captain Dewey, a refined black man who wore thin gold-rimmed glasses. There was also some reporter named Overton present.

  “Captain, the Los Angeles is already down fourteen hundred feet! With every minute we delay, it goes deeper.”

  “Our job, Miss Thomas, is to stand by for possible survivors.”

  “There aren’t going to be any goddamned survivors if you don’t act!”

  “Miss Thomas, I take my orders from CINCPAC, just as you are supposed to do. I admit that I don’t know what sanctions will be taken against you, but I am certain there will be sanctions if you do not get under way immediately. Your ship is under command of Admiral Potter.”

  “Think about the damned Tashkent! Do you want to be responsible for more deaths?”

  “Other people, paid better than I am, make the decisions,” Dewey said.

  “Look, you idiot! Look over there! The submersible is already deployed.”

  “And you should recall it as soon as possible,” Captain Dewey told her. “You are placing a large part of the world at risk.”

  The reporter decided to interrupt, rather than observe. “The lady’s plan seems logical to me, Captain. What are you objecting to?”

  Captain Dewey turned his head and solemnly surveyed the reporter. Thomas could practically see the wheels turning inside his head. Thinking about headlines.

  The commander sighed. “Very well, I’ll radio Hawaii, but I don’t think Iʼm going to get very far.”

  As he left the bridge, the reporter asked her, “Your first name is Kaylene? How do you spell that?”

  *

  0122 HOURS LOCAL, PEARL HARBOR NAVAL BASE, HAWAII

  Avery Hampstead could not believe that so many people could get so pissed off just because one man wanted to save a hundred men.

  The operations room was in turmoil. Technicians banged angrily on keyboards, hauled messages in and out, updated plotting boards. Cmdr. Harold Evans held a microphone in one hand and held a headset against his ear with the other hand, talking to some captain aboard the Bronstein. Adm. David Potter, who was seated at the table next to Hampstead, was red-faced and on an open line to the Pentagon. Hampstead figured he was talking to the Chief of Naval Operations.

  The nuclear people had congregated in one corner, trying to stay out of the battle zone. They were smarter people than he had given them credit for being.

  They had known for some time, via radar contacts, that Brande had veered off course in the direction of the Los Angeles. What had really raised temperatures was the Orionʼs continual, “on track, on schedule,” responses to every query sent out by CINCPAC.

  Hampstead had even tried the telephone, but only reached an answering machine. “Sorry we can’t get to the phone right now, but we’re on track, on schedule. Try calling back in a couple days.”

  Potter slammed his phone down. His face was an even deeper red. “The son of a bitch!”

  “Who?” Hampstead asked.

  “All of them.”

  “Admiral,” Evans said, “Captain Dewey has a Kaylene Thomas on board.”

  “Who’s Thomas?”

  “She’s the president of Marine Visions Unlimited,” Hampstead offered.

  “What the hell does she want?”

  “She’s got a plan to save the Los Angeles,” Evans said.

  Hampstead thought the commander sounded hopeful.

  “You tell her to get that goddamned boat of hers back on course.”

  “Sir? Shouldn’t we…I mean, there’s men…”

  “Don’t question me, Commander. I care about those men, but I do what Washington tells me to do. You do what I tell you to do. Got that?”

  Hampstead wondered if there was not another line of work in which he might be happier. One located a long way from Washington.

  *

  0126 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 39" NORTH, 176° 10' 52" EAST

  It was not until the Winter Storm had approached the surface and deployed its antenna to transmit its latest search data to the Timofey Olʼyantsev that Capt. Mikhail Gurevenich learned of the catastrophe that had struck the Los Angeles.

  He had immediately ordered the search temporarily abandoned and the Winter Storm onto a heading toward Captain Taylor’s vessel.

  He had only momentarily considered reporting his change in mission to the OVyantsev, and then had foregone the report.

  Now, as they neared the reported coordinates, cruising at 200 meters of depth, sonar had reported surface vessels, the American submarine at depth, and what was likely a deep-diving submersible.

  He told Mostovets, “Lieutenant, I am going to the communications compartment. You have the deck.”

  “I have the deck, Captain.”

  “Decrease speed to five knots.”

  “Five knots. At once, Captain.”

  “Then we want to dive within a few hundred meters of the Los Angeles and stand off to the west.”

  Gurevenich walked aft and entered the communications section. Radio Operator Kartashkin was on duty.

  “Kartashkin, turn on the acoustic receiver.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  The technician leaned to his far right and worked the switches and toggles on the little-used transceiver.

  A babble of noise erupted on the speaker. Kartashkin refined it with the squelch and filters, then began to scan the spectrum of frequencies.

  “Stop! There!” Gurevenich said.

  He had heard a garbled phrase, then had to readjust his mind to accept English.

  Kartashkin fine-tuned the set.

  Two different voices, both unknown to Gurevenich, were exchanging information.

  *

  0127 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 39" NORTH, 176° 10' 52" EAST

  The DepthFinder had submerged almost as soon as Brande had released the lift cable tying her to the Orion. He had clambered down through the hatchway, accidentally kicking Dankelov in the shoulder, and dogged the hatch tight. About a bucket of salty seawater came with him.

  “Did you get a fix on that antenna buoy, Valeri?” he asked.

  “Yes, Dane. It is one hundred and fifty yards away. We should take a heading of two-three-six.”

  “Got two-three-six,” Dokey said. He was operating the sub’s controls.by leaning across from the right seat.

  Brande settled into the canvas seat and took over the controls.

  The sub descended at her maximum rate as Brande rotated it to the new heading. He eased in minimal forward propulsion. The tossing and turning of the surface had completely subsided. The ride was smooth and the interior of the hull seemed exceptionally quiet. Hum of electronics.

  “Fire up the sonar, Okey.”

  “Coming
up.”

  “Depth sixty feet,” Dankelov said. “Lithium hydroxide blower operating at full speed. Oxygen reserves nine-six percent.”

  “Let’s have the cabin recorders, Valeri. We may want a record of this.”

  “Recorders on. Acoustic transceiver on.”

  Almost as soon as he said it, Mel Sorenson checked in. “DepthFinder; status report.”

  Dankelov put the acoustic transmissions on the instrument panel speaker and reported for them. “All systems are green, Captain. Depth nine-eight feet. Normal descent.”

  Dankelov, whose speech was so formal normally, gravitated to the American radio idiom of clipped phrases whenever he got hold of a microphone. It was, Brande thought, much like the Citizen’s Radio band craze of earlier years. Everyone who bought a radio sounded like an Alabama trucker with the pedal down as soon as they got on the air.

  Brande stared out the forward porthole. There was nothing but blackness. He flipped the toggle for the floodlights, which gave them a forty-foot range of vision. A golden-orange fish darted from in front of them, too quick to identify.

  “Got’em at fourteen-thirty-seven feet,” Dokey said. “Hey, we’ve got another one coming.”

  “Another what?” Brande asked.

  “Sub. I don’t know whose it is.”

  “Keep an eye on it.”

  It took them almost fifteen minutes to achieve the depth Brande wanted, about twenty feet lower than the Los Angeles.

  “She’s northwest of her emergency antenna buoy,” Dokey said. “Range three hundred yards.”

  “I’m releasing weights,” Brande said, raising the protective plastic flap over the two toggles, then snapping them down. Two green LEDs told him the weights had dropped.

  The submersible slowed her descent, then began to rise.

  “I’m taking on ballast,” Dokey said.

  The DepthFinder stabilized at 1,460 feet of depth. Brande eased the power stick forward and watched as the rate of speed came up to ten knots. He held it there.

  “Two-five-five yards,” Dokey said. He placed his forefinger on the screen in front of him, as if making personal contact with the blip on the screen.

  “The other sub has stalled at one-four-hundred feet, two hundred yards west.”

  “Let’s see if either of them are listening,” Brande said. “Let me have the phone, Valeri.”

  Dankelov passed the handset on its coiled cord over Brande’s shoulder.

  He pressed the transmit stud. “Los Angeles, this is the DepthFinder.”

  Somebody had been hanging around the acoustic radio set aboard the submarine. The response was immediate. “DepthFinder, this is Commander Alfred Taylor, commanding. Where are you?”

  “Al? Dane Brande here. We’re a couple hundred yards out and closing. Your electronics down?”

  “Just about everything is down. We lost sonar a couple hours ago.”

  “How’s the environment?”

  “Holding out, but getting a little stale. My people tell me we’ve got ten hours of air left.”

  “That’ll be a hell of a lot more time than we need.”

  “We’ve been sinking steadily,” Taylor said. There was a lot of understandable tension in his voice. “The rate of descent is picking up.”

  “We calculated that. We’re still okay.”

  Brande eased off on the power, and pulled the right stick back a trifle. The bow rose.

  A minute later, Dokey said, “Heads up. We should get her in a second.”

  The sub appeared in the lights abruptly.

  Brande reversed the motors for a second, to cancel the forward momentum.

  The submarine appeared to be hanging in space. The stern was down by ten degrees, and she was canted to the starboard a few degrees. The bow was to Brande’s left. It was a dully reflective gray under the harsh lights.

  “I see you, Al.”

  Taylor’s sigh came over the receiver, echoing. “Wish to hell I could see you. Dane, is it?”

  “Right.”

  “Look, from what I’ve read about the DepthFinder, we’re not going to find a mating surface.”

  “No, that’d take too long, anyway. We’re going to tow you out.”

  “What?”

  “I see that your diving planes are in the full-up position. Are they operational?”

  “No”

  “No sweat. Full-up is what we want, anyway.”

  After a pause, Taylor said, Tve got you. But not with the submersible?”

  “She’s a tough little gal, Al, but not seven thousand tons displacement tough. No, we’re negotiating with the Bronstein, which is just above us.”

  “She is? Why didn’t she contact us?”

  “You’re Navy, Al. I’m not, so I can’t answer those kinds of questions.”

  “Okay, Dane. What’s the procedure?”

  “We’ve got an ROV with us, and hanging below us is a two-hundred-foot steel cable and a two-thousand-foot coil of light line. I want to attach the light line to your towing bitt, then we’ll take the other end to the surface and snag a cable from the frigate. Then we can pull the cable down and hook you up.”

  “Sounds damned good to me,” Taylor said.

  “Go, Okey,” Brande said.

  Dokey leaned forward over his control board, gripped the control handles, and eased forward speed in. Beneath the forward porthole, they saw Atlas nudge his way forward, out of the sheath. The fiber-optic cable trailed behind, pulling away from its spring-loaded reel.

  Dokey cut in the ROV’s video camera, and the image filled the starboard screen.

  Brande activated the submersible’s own video camera, channeling the picture to the center screen. Atlas swam into view.

  Working the controls was much like flying a radio-controlled airplane, and controllers frequently referred to the operation of ROVs as ʻflyingʼ.

  Dokey could be expected to fly barrel rolls and loops with his ROVs, but now, as Brande glanced at him, he was deadly serious. The giveaway was his tongue stuck into the side of his cheek.

  “Clear,” Dankelov said, monitoring the sensors beneath the submersible. “Cable is unreeling freely.”

  A female voice broke in on the acoustic receiver. “DepthFinder?”

  Brande picked up the handset from his lap and thumbed the button. “Go ahead, Rae.”

  “The goddamned Navy has to check with Washington!”

  She was definitely perturbed.

  “Easy, Rae. Well just go ahead and get started, so we’re ready when they are.” He dropped the phone.

  Another voice came out of nowhere.

  “DepthFinder. This is Captain Mikhail Gurevenich of the Commonwealth submarine Winter Storm.” The English was a little hesitant, and with the echo of the acoustic transmission, difficult to understand.

  Before Brande could find his handset again, Taylor spoke. “Captain Gurevenich? This is Al Taylor.”

  “I am aware of your plight, Captain Taylor. We wish to assist you.”

  “That’s our other sub,” Dokey said.

  “May I speak to him?” Dankelov asked.

  “Sure thing, Valeri.” Brande passed the telephone back over his shoulder.

  Rapid-fire Russian filled the speaker for several minutes, then Dankelov said, “Because of his propeller configuration, Gurevenich says he must tow in reverse. We are to attach the towing line to his bow bitt.”

  Brande repeated the instructions to Taylor.

  “Sounds good to me, Dane. Captain Gurevenich, the men of the Los Angeles wish to express their gratitude.”

  “It is not necessary, Captain Taylor. We owe you a cup of coffee.”

  “What the hell’s that about?” Dokey asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Brande said. “Let’s go.”

  He eased in forward propulsion and advanced toward the stricken submarine, following behind the ROV. The whole scenario felt as if it were taking place in slow motion.

  Twenty feet from the bow of the sub, Brande sl
owed, then stopped. In the center screen, the ROV also stopped, spun slowly around on its vertical axis, then moved down below the submersible.

  Brande switched his attention to the starboard screen. Atlasʼs video eye had picked out the loops of the one-inch steel cable hanging from the wire cage of the sheath.

  “Don’t drop it, Okey. We don’t have time to go looking for it.”

  “Up yours, Chief. You ever see me drop anything before?”

  “No, because it was usually gold.”

  “This cable is as good as gold to the guys inside that can,” Dokey said.

  On the screen, the manipulator arm reached out to almost its full length. Dokey’s left hand went to the slide switches on the panel, and the thumb and two fingers of the claw flexed. Gently, it found one of the plastic ties holding a single loop to the sheath, gripped it, and tugged.

  The plastic broke and the loop fell away.

  Dokey snapped the ties on three more loops which dropped out of sight of the camera and the halogen lights, to give himself slack in the cable, then came back and lifted the hook on one end of the cable from its latch on the wire cage.

  Immediately, the picture on the screen began to tumble and spin.

  The weight of the cable tugged the ROV downward.

  Dokey’s hands whipped back to the ROV control sticks, gently feeding in downward and sideways thrust.

  The screen image stabilized.

  Picture of a metal arm and a metal hand gripping a metal hook. Background of darkness.

  Rotating.

  Rising.

  The bow of the sub came into view on the ROV screen just as the ROV rose into position ahead of DepthFinder.

  “You sweating yet?” Brande asked.

  “Thinking about it.”

  Brande could imagine the other people sweating over their progress. Thomas and Sorenson and the other team members would be on the bridge of the RV, waiting for word from below. Gurevenich, too, was blind.

  And Taylor and his men had the most to sweat about.

  Atlas eased away from them, moving toward the towing bitt on the bow, dragging the fiber-optic cable and the heavy steel cable behind. As the ROV closed on the hull, the extending weight of the steel line caused it to nose down.