Ultra Deep

by William H. Lovejoy

  Gathered around that end of the table, all of the advisors were still debating the finer points.

  Unruh was getting damned tired of it. He had been on the brink for over a week. All he needed was a simple goddamned decision. He broke in. “Gentlemen, I know Iʼm low dog in this house, but I’m the one who’s supposed to inform the civilians. Can I have a yes or no?”

  The President looked at his watch. “The computer model says twenty hours from now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The President looked up at the display. “There doesn’t seem to be much progress.”

  “No, sir.” They had been delaying a decision, hoping to hear optimistic reports from the Pacific.

  “If we tell them what Piredenko predicts, the searchers might scatter, and we’ll never find it.”

  Probably, Unruh thought.

  “If we don’t tell them, we’ll probably find it. We also stand to lose a few people if it does go supercritical.”

  “A few people,” the CNO said.

  “No,” said the President. “We’ll keep Pyotr Piredenko’s estimates to ourselves.”

  It was a tough way to go, Unruh thought, though he also agreed with it. Though he had never met Brande or any of his oceanographic scientists, the heroic splash Wilson Overton’s article in the Post had made over the rescue of the Los Angeles had given Unruh an appreciation for the courage and dedication of the people on the research vessel.

  He reached for the telephone, to call Hampstead, then remembered that the Commerce undersecretary did not handle classified information very well.

  Withdrawing his hand from the phone, he decided no call was necessary.

  He hoped that Overton did not have to make, in addition to a hero, a martyr out of Brande.

  *

  0547 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 8" NORTH, 176° 10' 47" EAST

  “Orion, this is Winter Storm.”

  “Si, this is the Orion. Go ahead, Storm.ˮ

  “I am Captain Gurevenich. I would like to speak with Mr. Dane Brande”

  “Un momento. Iʼll find him, Capitan.”

  The English language never failed to amaze Gurevenich. New phrases kept popping up.

  He was beginning to lose track of how many times they had covered the search area in the last five days. The constant tension of cruising at the extreme depth limits, in addition to doubled watches, had worn the crew to a frazzle.

  And his men still did not know that they were looking for a prize that could mean their deaths. That knowledge caused Gurevenich a great deal of sleepless rest. The junior officer, Lieutenant Kazakov, had demanded more information about the rocket after his visit to the American submarine, when Commander Taylor had let slip the word reactor, but Gurevenich had sworn the lieutenant to secrecy. Still, when they passed each other in a corridor, in the wardroom, or in the control center, Kazakov treated him to baleful, accusing looks.

  Sr. Lt. Ivan Mostovets appeared in the hatchway to the communications compartment, and Gurevenich motioned him inside.

  As soon as they had achieved a cruising depth of twenty meters, to deploy the antenna as well as give the crew a respite from the nerve-wracking depths, Gurevenich had chased the radioman from the compartment.

  “We are making ten knots, and we are on course, Captain. The surface is very rough.”

  Gurevenich nodded to the executive officer. When it was so smooth at depth, it was difficult to remember that storms frequently raged over the Pacific Ocean.

  “Captain Gurevenich, Dane Brande.”

  “Mr. Brande, I believe it is you I must thank for the charts provided earlier. Valeri Dankelov told me so.”

  “Exceptionally small compensation for your assistance with the Los Angeles, Captain. We thank you.”

  “I am glad we were in a position to assist,” Gurevenich said. “I have been thinking that it is time we should share more information.”

  Mostovets’s eyebrow rose.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Brande said.

  “We have had magnetometer readings of a mass on the seamount at twenty minutes, twenty-four seconds north, ten minutes, fifty seconds east. It is at one thousand meters depth, and we suspect a shipwreck. Additionally, Mr. Brande, we suspect a seamount five kilometers directly south of the wreck. The depth would be approximately two thousand meters.”

  “That is helpful, Captain. Tell you what, though. I’ll give you the radio frequency for the RV Kane, and you can transmit your data directly to them. In exchange, they will provide you with our latest information. How about your submersible, the Sea Lion? Have you heard anything from her?”

  Gurevenich had not known that the deep-diving submersible had even been deployed as yet. So much for high-technology communications.

  “I have not, Mr. Brande.”

  “We’d sure like to swap stories with them. Maybe you could put in a good word for us, Captain?”

  “I will speak with General Oberstev.”

  “General Oberstev? He’s with Rocket Forces, isn’t he?” Brande asked.

  “Yes. He is in charge of this operation.”

  Brande did not voice any amazement that an Air Force officer was leading a naval search, so Gurevenich did not share his own resentment.

  “Well, we’d sure be happy to talk to him, too,” Brande said, then read off a radio frequency.

  “I will tell him. Good day, Mr. Brande.”

  Gurevenich released the transmit button and said to Mostovets, “Give that frequency to Kartashkin, then contact the Kane.”

  Mostovets shook his head up and down with his approval.

  Gurevenich keyed in the task force network frequency used by the Timofey Ol’yantsev and the cruisers and asked for General Oberstev.

  He must have been right on the bridge, for the response was rapid. “Yes, Captain?”

  “General, we have been traversing the crash area for five days…”

  “With a deviation for that incident with the American submarine.”

  “I would not do it differently tomorrow, General.”

  “Very well, proceed.”

  “It is time to quit deceiving ourselves,” Oberstev said, holding his breath. “We must work with the Americans and the Japanese.”

  After a long hesitation, Oberstev said, “I will take your recommendation under consideration, Captain.”

  Which meant that he would pass it along to Vladivostok and Moscow, no doubt. Then would wait hours and days for the answer, which would most likely be negative.

  Gurevenich switched the microphone to the boat’s public address system.

  “Your attention, This is the captain. I have information regarding the crashed rocket that I will now share with you. Please listen carefully…”

  *

  1112 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 12" NORTH, 176° 10' 29" EAST

  Kim Otsuka planted her feet wide on the steel deck and stood near the railing, gripping it tightly with both hands. Wind-whipped, cold spray spattered the flesh of her face, but it was refreshing after the time she had devoted to the computer terminal.

  The Orion rose and fell with the sea, but was otherwise relatively stable. Her cycloidal propellers were working well. She knew that Mel Sorenson would have locked the autopilot navigation system into the satellite global navigation system, and the research vessel was moving at carefully calculated speeds and directions, staying above the course of the DepthFinder, which was several miles below the surface of the sea.

  When she looked behind her, the deck seemed strangely vacant without the submersible in place. She had been down for several hours now, crewed by Emry, Roskens and one of the interns, Rich Bellow. They were reporting new geologic structures, no metallic contacts, and smooth running to the surface operations control now set up in the laboratory.

  On the surface, all around Otsuka, was an ocean that was far less smooth. She estimated the wave tops at ten feet, perhaps higher. When the ship went into a trough, the wave peaks were at levels above her head. The noise of
the wind competed with that of the sea, when a wave crashed against the hull. There was no sun visible. The skies were overcast in streaky gray and silver. It was not raining, but the impression was that a slanting, wind-driven deluge would begin at any moment.

  Also all around her, when the Orion rose high enough for her to see, were six or seven boats and ships. They had converged on the RV almost as soon as she had entered the target zone. Directly abeam was a magnificent 100-foot yacht out of Hong Kong, ablaze with lights in her salon. Yellow-slickered people on the stern deck stared at her, and she could not tell if they were supporters or detractors. They had television cameras, and occasionally trained one on her.

  She ignored it.

  Aft, promising to interfere with the recovery of the Depth-Finder when it returned to the surface, was a teak-hulled junk, its drab exterior appearance probably in total disagreement with an opulent interior. The Orientals aboard had cheered when the submersible had first been lowered into the depths.

  Otsuka absorbed her environment with her peripheral vision. Her eyes were focused into the gray seas as she wrestled with her feelings.

  “Kim?”

  She turned to find Dokey standing in the doorway to the lab, holding the steel door open against the wind. He stepped out, let the door slam, and stepped across the narrow deck to stand beside her.

  “I wish to be alone for a while, Okey.”

  “Understandable, with the bunch of people we’ve brought along,” he said. “Not particularly understandable when applied to me.”

  She smiled at him. “Please?”

  “You tell me the problem, then Iʼll leave you to mull it over.”

  For some reason, she did not even try to keep it from him. She told him about her telephone call.

  “Well, shit! What assholes!”

  “What do I do, Okey?”

  He put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her hands from the railing, and turned her toward the door.

  “First, we get inside where there’s less risk of my having to go over the side to rescue you, which would probably be a flop, anyway.”

  She walked with him, lurching once as the Orion’s bow rose to climb the slope of a wave. Dokey pulled the door open, ushered her in, and directed her toward the operations center at the forward end of the lab.

  On a long workbench, Larry Emry’s computer terminal for tracking the search and several radio sets had been set up. There was a line direct to the bridge, a radio tuned into the Kane’s command net, a radio for other communications, a telephone tied into the satellite link, and the acoustic telephone that was their only contact with the crew of the submersible.

  While they were supposed to rest between deployments of the DepthFinder, most crew and team members not on other duty were gathered around the workbench, kibitzing over Svetlana Polodka’s shoulders. She was the duty officer on the desk, maintaining communications with all of the vessels concerned. From an overhead speaker, Tchaikovsky’s The Seasons was playing at low volume. Polodka had put it on to keep tensions down, she said.

  In Emry’s absence, Bucky Sanders was handling the temporary chart. It was a large nautical chart of the search area, covered with plastic, and angled against the wall from the top of the workbench. Until the DepthFinder was brought aboard for crew and battery changes, and the recorder tapes could be recovered, significant findings were reported orally over the acoustic telephone, and Sanders indicated them on the chart with magic markers. When the recorded data was dumped to computer memory and replayed, it would be entered into the more permanent computer files.

  The temporary chart was developed just in case the submersible was never recovered. It was a doomsday policy, but necessary just the same.

  A separate video display terminal, controlled by a keyboard in front of Polodka, showed the current status of the submersible. Its time below, battery charges, equipment function levels and other data were listed in neat rows. At the top of the list was the current depth in feet. Otsuka automatically glanced at it: -17,782.

  The submersible was on a heading of 090 degrees, due east on her second eastward pass since arriving. They were a third of a mile north of the impact point on this leg, after having run a westward leg a third of a mile south.

  Bucky Sanders, wearing a headset so he could hear more clearly, was charting a small ridge that ran parallel to the submersible’s course. The peak of a dormant volcano had been pinpointed a mile to the north at 15,000 feet of depth. A dotted line running south had been labeled as the course of the Sea Lion. The Americans and the Soviets were moving at right angles to each other. Some things did not change, Otsuka thought.

  Among the people gathered around Polodka were Brande and Thomas, and Dokey let go of her to slip into the crowd and tap both of them on the shoulder.

  They turned to follow Dokey, and he took her hand as he passed, headed for the aft end of the laboratory.

  “What did you find out about Kim’s passport status?” Dokey asked.

  “The last time I talked to Hampstead,” Thomas said, “he told me that Washington had declined to interfere.”

  “Those bastards can start wars, but they can’t even manage a little diplomatic bullying,” Dokey said.

  “Okey…” Otsuka started to say.

  “What’s up?” Brande asked.

  “Her consulate just called to tell her that her passport has been revoked. We are to disembark her on the Eastern Flower.ˮ

  “Bullshit!” Brande said.

  Thomas’s face reddened, and she said, “All right. Let’s give them the program.”

  “No, you must not,” Otsuka said.

  “Have we heard anything about the Flower?” Brande asked.

  “I was given the coordinates,” Otsuka said, “but the ship is not yet operating. The submersible is ready, but the sonar robot is malfunctioning. That is why they want the programming.”

  “They’ve come to the show, but can’t perform,” Dokey said. “Well, fuck’em.”

  “Can you contact them directly?” Brande asked.

  “By radio or telephone.”

  “Come on, let’s go find a private line.”

  Brande led the way this time, and the four of them went forward to the wardroom and settled into the last booth.

  Brande handed her the phone. “Make the call and the translations, would you, Kim?”

  She spoke to Paco, who was manning the radio shack, and he made the connection with the Eastern Flower. After a short exchange, she found herself speaking in Japanese to a man named Inouye who claimed he was the expedition leader.

  “Tell him we’re prepared to license the robot programming,” Brande said.

  She passed it on, then told Brande, “He wants to know the cost.”

  “So do I,” Dokey said. “Ream them out, Chief.”

  “The cost is the immediate restoration of Kim’s passport and the requirement that the Eastern Flower report to, and follow the orders of, the RV Kane for the duration of the search.”

  “Get two million bucks, too,” Dokey said.

  “Amen,” Thomas added.

  “No,” Brande told them.

  Otsuka let her eyes widen as she repeated Brande’s demand in Japanese.

  The response was short.

  “The cost is too high.”

  “That’s it, Kim. Tell him all or nothing.”

  She translated, then waited.

  And waited.

  Finally.

  “They agree,” she said, feeling the relief wash over her. Dokey took her free hand and squeezed it.

  “As soon as we have word from your consulate that your passport has been restored, and as soon as we receive a telex confirming the arrangements, you can transmit the program to them,” Brande told her.

  “Thank you, Dane.”

  “We’ve got more important things to do than worry about money,” he said. “Right, Rae?”

  She grimaced, but said, “Right.”

  Otsuka relayed the instruction
s on to Inouye.

  Dokey said, “Can I call the Kane and tell them we’ve forced a surrender?”

  “Go ahead,” Thomas said. “Cartwright will be glad to hear from you.”

  “Don’t be profane, please,” Otsuka told Dokey.

  “Well, hell, hon, you’re talking all the fun out of it. And we didn’t even reach our next defensive position.”

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “We could have had olʼ Mel marry us.”

  She looked up at him. “What? You don’t mean that?”

  “Scout’s honor. Supreme sacrifice, and all that.”

  From the look on Brande’s face, Otsuka was certain that Brande was also unsure about how serious Dokey was.

  And Thomas’s face was immobile. Kaylene was trying to be so inscrutable since she had begun sleeping with Brande.

  *

  1255 HOURS LOCAL, 26° 20' 12" NORTH, 176° 10' 50" EAST

  The DepthFinder was aboard for a crew and battery change, and Brande was aft in the laboratory. He, Otsuka, and Connie Alvarez-Sorenson — who had only made one previous dive — would crew the next stint.

  Thomas was in the wardroom with the last of the lunch-break crowd. She was making a chocolate malt last. For some reason, on expeditions, but never ashore, she always got a craving for chocolate malted milk, and she stocked the galley accordingly.

  Ingrid Roskens came out of the galley with a steaming cup of cocoa. “Hey, Kaylene!”

  “Hi, Ingrid. Welcome back.”

  “It was a breeze.”

  “You look tired”

  “I am tired. I was going to ask if I could use our cabin, but I guess it’s free until Dane gets back, right?” She winked at Thomas.

  “Ingrid!”

  “Ta ta, sweetie.” Roskens headed for the door.

  Carrying her tall glass, she picked up her plate and silverware and returned them to the galley. She was about to leave the lounge and go check on Brande — was her silliness showing to everyone? — when she saw Dokey stretched lengthwise on one bench of the first booth. He was reading.

  She crossed the wardroom and slid into the bench opposite him, placing her glass on the table.

  He looked up, “Hi, Kaylene.”