by Ahern, Jerry
“Aye, sir?”
“Raise the attack periscope, in case we’re being watched.” “Sir?”
“Do it.” Sebastian descended the three steps, standing before the plotting board. “Computer.” He wasn’t speaking to a disembodied entity within the ship’s electronic circuitry. He was speaking to computer station chief Lieutenant Junior Grade Rodriguiz.
“Aye, sir?”
“Mr. Rodriguiz, consult with the ship’s computer banks and calculate as precisely as possible the maximum acceleration factor for an Island Class submarine traveling at one third flank speed shifting into reverse maneuvering speed, taking into account such variables as the response time of inexperienced con personnel, to the best of your ability, also considering the factor that the man at the helm of said Island Classer is Captain Darkwood.”
“Aye, sir.”
He studied the converging lines. They were nearly met. Within moments, Jason Darkwood would be forced to act.
“Commander!”
“Yes, Mr. Mott?” Sebastian turned toward the communications station.
“Sir. I just received a message from Captain Darkwood aboard the Arkhangelsk.”
“Share it with me, Mr. Mott.
“Aye, sir.” Mott cleared his throat. “Compliments to Admiral Rahn, commanding USS Ronald Reagan. Advise protect your flagship at all costs. Project Damocles device installed and operational. Just watch and enjoy. Two enemy vessels about to be destroyed. Signed Darkwood, Captain, USN, USS Roy Rogers (formerly Soviet submarine vessel Arkhangelsk) commanding.”
T.J. Sebastian smiled.
“Sir? What’s Project Damocles?”
Sebastian kept the smile. He remembered seeing old videotapes of the man known as “The King of The Cowboys.” Sebastian’s left eyebrow raised as he spoke, “I believe, Mr. Mott, Captain Darkwood is wishing us ‘Happy Trails’. Let us endeavor to see to it that his wish comes true.”
His eyes returned to the plotting display. In the next instant, Jason Darkwood would have to make his move.
“Communications. Convey Admiral Rahn’s compliments to the USS Roy Rogers—using the same code, of course-and inform Captain Darkwood that the fleet is in readiness.” Jason knew about the third Island Class submarine. …
Jason Darkwood stood over the unfamiliar plotting table. “Seaman Eubanks. Confirm with engineering spaces that reactors are full on line and ready.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Sam. Be ready with port and starboard cluster charges on my signal.” “Aye, sir.”
“Corporal Lannigan. Signal the Reagan that the USS Roy Rogers is ready to deploy on Admiral Rahn’s command.”
“Yes, sir!”
Darkwood moved to the navigation station, telling the Marine sergeant there, “Stand by, Sergeant.” “Yes, sir!”
Darkwood laid his hands over the instruments. Island Classers were unresponsive beasts, but this one had to respond. “Engineering. Ready?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Excellent. On my mark, full power. I don’t care if we fry the damned reactors, because if we don’t get full power, we’re dead. Right?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Very good, Seaman Eubanks.” Darkwood didn’t take his eyes from his instruments, his left hand poised over speed controls. “Sam. Look at that plotting board real quick. Where are they?”
There was a moment’s silence, then, “Maybe one hundred yards off our stern, Jason.”
“Resume your station, Sam. Be ready on those cluster charges. Fire on my mark to engineering. Then be ready to follow up with tubes one and three forward. Be sure of your targets. We don’t want to hit the Reagan —or, for that matter, any of Admiral Rahn’s invisible fleet,” Darkwood grinned. “Got all that?”
“Aye, Captain.”
Darkwood laughed, “We’ll make a sailor out of you yet, Sam.”
“Begging the captain’s pardon, but like hell.” Darkwood closed his left hand over the speed control. He was counting it out in his head, calculating speed versus time.
Fifty yards to either side of him. If the cluster charges went off too quickly, the Roy Rogers would be squashed flatter than a piece of paper. On the plus side, Darkwood reassured himself, he’d be dead so quickly he’d never be aware of it.
Darkwood flexed the fingers of his left hand, his head nodding, his eyes closed. “Forty yards—da da, da da, da da. Thirty yards—da da, da da, da da. Twenty yards — boom! Mark, gentlemen! Engineering and weapons stations!” Darkwood’s left hand wrenched back, hauling the speed control from all ahead one-third to reverse. If he didn’t break something, maybe there was a chance. “Fire the damned cluster charges, Sam!”
“Fired, Jason!”
“More power, engineering. Fry those reactors!” The deck beneath him seemed to vibrate, and for a moment, just a split second, he had the impression of something akin to a loss of gravity, the Island Classer suddenly moving. Darkwood’s instruments were redlining, but they were showing reverse.
And the cluster charges detonated then, erratically like Soviet cluster charges sometimes did, too soon, the Arkhangelsk swept off trim, Darkwood shouting to Seaman Eubanks. “Engineering! More power or we’re dead! Tell the reactor crew I need everything we’ve got and I need it right now! Move!” Darkwood rammed the controls to all back, over the banging sounds of the cluster charges exploding around them a steadily rising hum from the screws. “Sam! Read that plotting board quick!”
“We’re dead even with their prows, Jason!”
“Be ready with those torpedoes. Don’t fire until I give the word!” If they made it clear of the two Island Classers without being ripped open like a can of fish or squashed, he’d fire two of the forward torpedo tubes and maneuver out of the way. If. He blew ballast in the starboard tanks to get trim back.
“If,” Darkwood verbalized …
Sebastian’s eyes left the plotting board.
He sat in the captain’s chair. “Navigator. Implement the course corrections I have given you now. All ahead full. Up sixty feet as we go.”
“Aye, Mr. Sebastian.”
Sebastian swung the chair left, ordering Lieutenant Walenski, “Warfare. Prepare to fire forward tubes one and three on my command.”
“At what, sir?”
“You’ll have a target shortly. Sonar. Any activity coming our way?”
“With all the cluster charges off the Arkhangelsk, sir,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Julie Kelly began, “I can’t—wait a minute, sir. We’ve got two wire guides coming right at us, but not from either one of the two Island Classers.”
“Time to intercept for the wire guides, Lieutenant?”
“Time to intercept—seventeen seconds.”
“Very good, Lieutenant.Navigation. Lock into sonar’s readouts and do a running plot taking us away from the wire guides and toward the two visible Island Classers as
was our original intent. Engineering. Stand by for evasive maneuvers and notify reactors crews to stand by for overdrive.”
“Fifteen seconds and closing, sir,” Kelly sang out.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Warfare. Back azimuth the two wire guides and fire torpedoes one and three at the exact center of the plot, compensating for full flank speed of the Island Classer toward the visible Island Classers.”
“Aye, sir.Calculating.”
“Navigator. We’re running out of time.”
“I’ve got it laid in, sir.”
“Twelve seconds and closing, sir.”
“Engineering. Prepare for overdrive.”
“Overdrive capability standing by, sir.”
“Navigator. Ready?”
“Aye, sir!”
“Warfare. Ready?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Twelve seconds, sir!”
“Warfare. You may fire at will.”
“Aye, sir, firing sequence commencing—now!”
Somehow, he could always sense the release of a torpedo, some subtle vibration in the Reagan’s hull, perhaps only imagine
d. Sebastian turned his eyes toward Mott. “Communications. On intraship advise the crew to stand by for collision quarters.”
“Aye, sir.”
Mott’s voice rang over the intercom as Sebastian ordered, “Engineering. Activate overdrive power.”
“Aye, sir, activating overdrive now!”
“Tubes one and three away, sir,” Walenski sang out.
Sebastian’s eyes moved to the plotting table. He could see the Arkhangelsk’s position, the pincer formation of the two Island Classers outflanking her broken, the Arkhangelsk free. But, to do what? “Position of those wire guides, Sonar!”
“Eleven seconds. Now twelve. Now thirteen.”
“Notify me if we reach ten seconds, again.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Navigation. Prepare for disengagement of overdrive.”
“Ready to disengage, sir.”
Saul Hartnett called out, “I copy that, sir.”
“Disengage.”
“Aye, sir, disengaging,” Hartnett called out, Lureen Bowman echoing the response.
“All back. Take us up one hundred feet as quickly as possible, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir, all back, blowing air to port and starboard main ballast tanks. We’re coming up, sir!”
“Sonar—the wire guides?”
“Eleven. Ten. Nine.”
“Navigation. All ahead two thirds, five degrees left rudder and up fifty feet. Warfare. Ready cluster charges. We’re going in on the two visible Island Classers.”
“I have readouts on torpedo firings, sir.”
“Did we hit, Lieutenant?”
“Confirmed on one, three is—we hit, sir!”
A cheer went up like a wave cresting over the bridge. “Premature,” Sebastian advised. “Sonar—positions on those wire guides.”
“Just under us, sir, past us.”
“Navigator, all back, hard right rudder, bring her about one-eighty degrees, then go to all ahead full.”
“All back, sir, hard right rudder, bringing her about to all ahead full.”
“Very good.Sonar. What’s happening?”
“The Arkhangelsk is firing torpedoes. One of the Soviet Island Classers is hurt.”
“Navigator. Plot the best intercept course to the second Island Classer. Notify warfare when we are in torpedo range. Communications. Advise the crew to secure from collision quarters, maintain battle stations.”
“Aye, sir,” Mott called back.
“Warfare,” Bowman called out in her rather pretty alto, “coming in range for torpedoes on my mark —Mark!”
“Understood,” Walenski called back. “Sir, we are in range for firing remaining forward torpedoes.”
“Calculate optimum firing sequence and fire at will,
Lieutenant. Communications. Signal the Arkhangelsk that Admiral Rahn sends his compliments.” “Aye, sir.”
“Firing three and four, sir,” Walenski called out. “Acknowledge, Lieutenant. Stand down on cluster charges.”
“Standing down on cluster charges.”
“Navigator. As soon as torpedoes in tubes two and four are away, alter course five degrees right rudder. Bring us to within five hundred yards of the Arkhangelsk and one hundred feet over her.”
“Aye, Captain—sorry, sir.”
“You have your orders, Bowman.”
“Aye, sir.”
He didn’t want to be captain. “Tubes two and four away, sir.” “Very good, Lieutenant.”
“Sir,” Mott called out. “I’m getting a distress signal from the second Island Classer. She’s—”
“Convey my regrets, Mr. Mott,” and T.J. Sebastian looked away, murmuring the word, “Stupidity,” under his breath.
CHAPTER FOUR
The gunship’s electronic intrused panel lit up. The instant it did, Paul Rubenstein shouted, “John!”
“I’m right behind you,” John Rourke told Paul Rubenstein; Rourke’s eyes focused on the panel. It was self-orienting directionally and indicated unknown objects—people, obviously, but carrying a considerable amount of metal on their bodies to activate the system so violently—approaching from the north. Rourke’s eyes moved to the anemometer readings. Wind speed fluctuated between lows of twenty-six miles per hour—he ran the metric equivalents in his head—to highs of forty-eight to fifty miles per hour in gust incidents. To take off now would be suicidal.
“Suit up, Paul,” John Rourke advised… .
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the painting hanging on the wall behind Doctor Rothstein’s desk. It was a copy of Van Gogh’s ‘Potato Eaters.’ Her mother had told her Van Gogh was a great artist, but she was more like her father in that respect. She liked Remington and Russell and Delacroix. The microfiche files at the Retreat even had comic art in them, the cartoon strips she so vaguely remembered from the newspapers of her childhood before the Night of the War.
She heard the door open behind her, edged forward in her chair, her back not touching it at all, her head turning so she could look over her shoulder, her hands unmoving. A tall, very lean man, underweight perhaps, entered the room. He wore a sportshirt and slacks and white shoes. His graying brown hair was thinning on top, but despite that, cut short. Like a psychiatrist in a videotape, he wore a small goatee at the tip of his chin and a pencil thin mustache.
“Mrs. Rubenstein?”
“Yes, sir,” she nodded. “Doctor Rothstein?”
“Yes. I feel we have some ethnicity in common.”
“My husband, Paul, yes, he’s—”
“He must have been happy to learn he wasn’t the only Jew left in the world,” Doctor Rothstein said, smiling, extending his hand as he stood before her.
“He was,” she laughed.
With such a small population at Mid-Wake, of course, our percentage isn’t that great. But—well, I’ve been reading the data on you and on Major Tiemerovna. Am I pronouncing her name correctly? My Russian’s always been terrible.”
“Close enough, Doctor. Do you think—”
“I can try,” he smiled, crossing to stand behind his desk for a second, then sitting in the comfortable looking chair behind it. “That’s all anyone can do, Mrs. Rubenstein. And, I understand from Doctor Barrow’s case notes that you’re willing to help. By the way, she made an excellent diagnosis. For lack of a better explanation, Major Tiemerovna is suffering the classic symptoms of manic depression, but I feel that under the surface there’s quite a bit more. What Doctor Barrow suggested has been done before, granted, but never in a case so severe. And, of course, I’ll have to test your ESP abilities.”
“They’re very good,” Annie told him, looking down at her hands, detecting a piece of white lint on her skirt, wondering if she should pick it off and risk being thought a compulsive.
“So I understand. Have you ever been hypnotized?”
“Not really. But I could let myself be.”
“You must understand something, Mrs. Rubenstein. And please feel free to ask any questions you care to,” he told her. “You see, if I’m able to successfully hypnotize you and you are able to read Major Tiemerovna’s thoughts, the only way it will do any good is for me to essentially attempt to record her thoughts in your mind. And that means your own thoughts will have to be totally sublimated. There is always the danger—”
He looked down at his desk. She watched how his hands moved. “Natalia’s my friend, Doctor.”
“There’s a very real danger that the shock to your mind could be such that your mind is overtaken by her symptoms. You’ll be essentially living whatever she’s living in her mind. I’ve only had the chance to spend a few moments with Major Tiemerovna, but based on my initial impressions, she’s very deeply into the depressive stage, so deeply into it that whatever her mind is experiencing, whatever feedback she’s getting, it can’t be pleasant. There is always the chance that whatever shocked her into this condition, whatever thing, how subtle, pushed her over the edge, as they say, might push you as well. Rather than
healing Major Tiemerovna, you might be dooming yourself.”
“Dooming?” Annie picked up on the word. And she snatched at the piece of white lint on her skirt. “What do you mean?”
“With all of the strides medicine and psychiatry have made in the five centuries since the great war, surprisingly little more has been learned about the deeper recesses of the human subconscious. If your extra-sensory abilities are as indicated, you offer the field of psychiatric study a great opportunity to actually see into the mind of the afflicted person. But since no experiment of this magnitude has ever been attempted —at least here, because we have no idea what the Russians are doing, of course— there is no way to precisely calculate the risks involved to you.”
“I’m willing to take the risk.”
“What would your husband say, Mrs. Rubenstein?”
“Are women at Mid-Wake legal minors, Doctor?”
He smiled. “I never said that. But it might be wise to — “
“Since I know what my husband would say, I don’t need to discuss it with him. Since I’m a free person, I don’t need his permission. Then what’s slowing us up?”
“Well, young lady, the tests for example — “
“I can start them immediately.”
Doctor Rothstein stood up, as though ending the interview. “Nonsense. You’ll need—”
Her head ached with it. ” ‘—several days to rest and recuperate.’ “
He smiled. “Not much of a trick, Mrs. Rubenstein.” “Think of something very intimate.” “I’m not going to play games with you, Mrs. Rubenstein-“
“Do it,” and she stood up, her fingertips on his desk
top.
«j_ »
“You just did. You wondered how it would be to have sex with me.” “Mrs. Rubenstein!”
“You thought of the first girl you ever had sex with. Her name was Mary or Marta or Martha and you were in her parents’ apartment and her younger sister was asleep in the next room — “
“Damnit, Mrs. Rubenstein!”
She’d never done that before and she sank back into the chair, a headache exploding behind her eyes… .
the helicopter gunship? Did they know what a helicopter gunship was?
John Rourke had no answers, only questions.
